


Breathe (2:00 AM)

by BenLMoore



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Addict Dean, Alcoholic Dean, Alternate Timeline, Canonical Universe, Dean is 21, Dubious Consent, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Graphic Sexual Content, Implied Oral Sex, Longing, M/M, Many liberties taken, Masturbation, Musician Sam, Pining, Pre-Series, Sam is 17, Sexual Predators, Wincest - Freeform, dub-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-08
Updated: 2017-05-25
Packaged: 2018-10-29 06:22:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 27,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10848258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BenLMoore/pseuds/BenLMoore
Summary: After a hunting accident leaves the Winchesters desperate to put the family business in the rear view mirror, they find themselves floundering through a semi-normal existence in which Sam has discovered a talent for songwriting and Dean has slipped further into the bottle.When Dean's girlfriend comes to Sam for help, it causes his long-repressed feelings for his brother to bubble dangerously near the surface.Inspired by Anna Nalick's song Breathe (2:00 AM)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> In case you haven't seen this, Jared made his guitar debut just as I start to post this fic. Nice timing, m'dear. And playing the song Sam first plays in the second chapter. Sweet synchronicity :)
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DL10qAkowys
> 
>  ***
> 
> Anna Nalick's song Breathe (2:00 AM) is an exquisite piece of writing set to beautiful music.  
> Go hear it here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jHEj4cRhm3E  
> The entire fic is based on the lyrics, which will be posted at the end.  
> For the record, Sam is supposed to have written the song, but really, it was Anna :)
> 
> This work is complete at 25K words. Final edit and posting until it's completely up.  
> Please let me know what you think along the way.  
> You know your feedback is fuel!
> 
> Special thanks to JhanaMay, Nyre_Rose & hellosweetie17 for beta work, hand-holding and general awesomeness!

Nobody calls the Winchesters at 2:00 AM anymore. Sam's phone only rings when someone wants him to cover their shift. Cassie’s name blinking on his screen is ominous at best. Dean's girlfriend has called exactly once before: to collect the bloody pieces of his brother after a bar fight that he had started and not finished. Sam sighs and massages the furrowed strip of skin between his eyebrows.

The light over the stove is enough for him to see the blank page in front of him. To save on utilities, the rest of the apartment is cold. Sam shakes his head. Would it be so wrong to ignore the call.

He’s been strumming the same chord, chewing on the bitter eraser, staring at this sheet of paper on the kitchen table for long enough that a distraction would be welcome. Just not this one.

The phone goes on buzzing in his palm. Sam just stares at it.

He doesn’t listen to his brother complain about Cassie. He had shut that down right at the start although they would have all fallen into those roles like clockwork. Sam has always had a gift for listening, as naturally as if he had studied the priesthood. But he doesn’t let Dean talk about Cassie, because he knows his motives wouldn’t be pure.

He wonders about them, though, more than any psychologist would say is normal. Then again, normal is never going to be a Winchester thing.

When he doesn’t keep himself busy, Sam imagines Dean and Cassie fucking, fighting, eating take-out, watching stupid movies together. He even fantasizes about them doing things his brother would never do: going for walks (which is way too girly), riding bikes (which Dean never learned), holding hands (yeah, right).

He doesn’t jerk off to them, though, usually, because he still possesses a modicum of self-respect. He just wonders what it must be like to be allowed to have his brother that way. Dean has always been unfalteringly Sam’s: his partner in the hunt, his only friend, his biggest problem—just not the one way he wants him.

Sam doesn't blame Cassie. She didn’t deal the cards. Even if Sam wasn’t his brother, Dean doesn’t do guys. That’s just how it is. Sam’s all cried out about it.

After another buzz, he rests the guitar in his lap and presses the green button. “Hey.”

“Hey. What are you doing?” Her voice is quieter than usual.

His right hand brushes idly over the strings and mutes them again just as quickly. “Well, I'm supposed to be writing…”

“I'm sorry. Am I bothering you?”

“No. Oh, no. Just kind of stuck.” He draws a winding spiral in the bottom left corner of the page.

At least it’s not blank anymore.

At this hour, the air is usually swollen and ripe with ideas. Tonight, it’s just the stillness and Sam: dark, vacant and void.

“Dean’s not here.” Sam would have heard him come in; his brother makes a lot of unnecessary noise these days.

“I know. He's here. Asleep.”

He and Cassie have never spelled out the code, but they both know that ’asleep’ means passed out.

“I would have called earlier, but…”

Most of the time, there’s an almost belligerent undertone to Cassie’s voice, like she’s leading the March on Washington. But Sam has never heard her at this hour before. Maybe she always purrs like a mother cat when it’s the middle of the night and Dean is ‘asleep’ nearby.

“So, what's up?”

“Can we ... Do you think we could have lunch tomorrow?”

The only other time they’ve had lunch Cassie was planning Dean’s birthday party. Sam winces at the thought of that massive fiasco. For the life of him, he cannot understand why Cassie is even with his brother. She’s smart, beautiful, and tough as nails—the kind of girl who could have any guy she wants. Apparently, she wants Dean even though she's never seen him anywhere near his best. Dean these days isn't even a shadow of the man he'd once been. He's more of a wraith of his former self, like the light breeze and dripping leaves left behind after a magnificent storm has passed.

Still, as long as his big brother doesn’t do anything to hurt her—really hurt her—it isn’t Sam’s place to get involved. But, here she is calling him at 2:00 in the morning, sounding more than a little bit broken.

It’s a given that if either of the Winchesters dies, the other will salt and burn the body. If one of them gets bitten and goes vamp or lyco, the other has a responsibility to gank the sorry sonofabitch for the greater good. Sam doesn’t have a contingency plan for what to do if his brother becomes a normal, run-of-the-mill menace to society. If he comes to that bridge, he supposes he’ll burn it to the ground.

“Sure. Come by anytime.”

When she’s gone from the line, Sam taps a rhythm on the paper with his pencil. He strums a G chord and hums a tune. It sounds too much like “Let It Be,” and he gives up for tonight.


	2. Chapter 2

When Sam’s skateboard clacks to the pavement, he’s already half hour behind schedule. He had been up before dawn, playing with a haunting melody that woke him from his dream. Both breakfast and a shower had gone by the wayside to earn him time to keep working on it. 

He rolls up the sidewalk, raising a brow at the guy who is blasting rock music so early. He doesn’t say anything, though. His neighbors keep to themselves; Sam returns the courtesy.

He sails up the street, lowering his right leg to kick off for more momentum. Instead of touching the pavement, his ankle trips against something. Sam lands hard on the asphalt. By the time he realizes what’s happening, the person who has knocked him down is kicking his skateboard across the street.

Sam cries out and scrambles after it. The board cruises under a passing car and into the gutter. A gruff burst of laughter is followed by, “Hey, you little pussy. Where’s your brother?”

“Fuck.” Sam sighs and turns over onto his ass.

He shakes his head and throws up his hands at the rip in the knee of his jeans. He stands, dusts himself off and frowns at an unshaven face that is twisted in anger and way too close. He can only identify the smell of the breath as bad, but he recognizes the guy. Sam has always been good with names, and this one was impossible difficult to forget: Gunner. With his huge, inked biceps bulging out of his wife beater (despite the crisp wind); the guy looks like a has-been semi-pro-wrestler. Sam rolls his eyes at the bulging roid-rage veins in Gunner’s neck before he finally answers, “Not here.”

“What's up with my car?”

“I don't know, man.” Sam surveys the tattoos on Gunner’s face, neck, arms, and hands.

The few times Sam has had to suffer the displeasure of this guy's company, it’s been like this. Gunner is one of those adults who never developed past the joys of being a bully. If he ever went to kindergarten, he never learned about personal space. He stalks forward, backing Sam up against a parked car. “It's been three weeks. Your brother said one. I was here last week, and it wasn’t done.”

Sam remembers that very well. The conversation was remarkably similar to this one, but from a much more pleasant distance. “I’m sorry. I don't know what to tell you.”

“You can tell me where that piece of shit is.” His breath really is atrocious.

Sam turns his face to the side. If he had to guess, he’d say it was a combination of cheap whiskey, seven layer burrito, and—quite feasibly—ass. There’s not a hint of toothpaste; that's for sure. Gunner’s barrel chest presses against Sam’s, which is more of a keg than a barrel and that’s only if he's generous with himself. Sam forcibly exhales the fetid air Gunner blows up his nose when he growls, “Where the fuck is he?”

“I got to get to work. I don't know where he is.” Sam holds his breath and tries to step to the side. The guy moves right along with him.

Gunner steps back just enough to look Sam over like he’s something new on the breakfast menu at McDonald’s. He licks his lips. “What are you, nineteen?”

“Seventeen,” he corrects, not that it matters.

Sam is half the guy’s age and nowhere near as built, but they stand eye to eye and Sam knows his own body count. Gunner doesn’t.

The musclebound man sucks his teeth, surveying Sam like he’s on an auction block. “You know, it’s hard to decide which one of you is tastier. Unfortunately, you’re not mine to touch.”

Sam could bring this asshole down in 30 seconds flat—aided largely by the fact that Gunner underestimates him—but Sam has never gotten off on fighting for its own sake. That was always Dean’s department. He maintains a respectful tone because truculence isn’t going to get him to work faster. “I’ll have him call you.”

“Yeah. You do that, little brother.” Gunner’s pat to his cheek is enough to make Sam reconsider his pacifism.

By the time he has steadied his breath, a car door slams hard behind him. Sam half expects it to fall off the Ford POS Gunner’s friend is driving. The car sputters and farts out a black cloud of smoke before it disappears down the street.

 

# ***

 

The hairnet over Rowena’s infrared hair does nothing to soften her sharp, ratlike features. Slimy looking yellow stains on her shirt are probably just cheese, but Sam’s nose turns up before he can stop himself. Just as quickly, he wipes off the disgusted expression, lowers his head, and makes his way to the time clock.

The woman frowns down at the watch on her bony wrist and launches into a tirade with full steam behind her Scottish brogue. “Why even show up if you’re going to be late? Why even bother, Sam? You know how many people would murder for this job? Especially in this economy. If you can’t appreciate employment, perhaps you shouldn’t be employed. You could just as easily be on the corner selling oranges.”

Sam hears every word, just as surely as he tunes them out. He punches his card, slips on his apron, and marvels to himself that the stench of week-old grease no longer makes him gag like it did the first time he walked into this kitchen. It just goes to show that you can get used to anything. Every few steps, the soles of his tennis shoes slip on the oily tiles, but he anticipates that and walks with the right balance of pressure and speed to keep from falling on his ass like he did repeatedly on his first day at the job.

“We will discuss this in my office on your break. Do you hear me, Sam?” She's a tiny thing, but she knows how to launch a fit. Her spit lands on his lip like venom.

“I have a friend coming for lunch,” Sam replies cautiously.

“A friend?” She speaks the word like it’s a curse. “Well, as soon as your 'friend' leaves, you and I will discuss your chronic tardiness in my office. Do you understand?”

He nods, grinding his teeth.

“And no free food for friends.” The ‘R’s roll off her tongue like rounds out of an automatic rifle.

 

# ***

 

The bell over the door rings when Cassie comes in; she gives Sam a weak smile and slides into a booth at the far end of the diner. He doles out the customer’s change and slams the drawer shut with yet another ding. He waves at his brother’s girlfriend and slips into the kitchen to hang up his apron and clock out.

“Hey.”

She looks up from her book, and Sam tries not to react to her bloodshot eyes and the sunken skin around them. He scans her face and forearms as they rest on the table and finds no noticeable bruising. ' _Weary'_ is the kind of word you use in poetry or a song, but not in real life. That’s how Cassie looks.

“You want anything? It’s on me.” He tries for a smile, but it doesn’t quite land.

She shakes her head, staring down at her fidgeting thumbs. “I already ate.”

“Oh. Okay.”

Cassie nods toward the counter. "What's with your boss?"

Sam doesn't bother to turn around to confirm that Rowena is glaring at them. He can already feel her gaze piercing him in the back. "Ignore her."

The special today is clam chowder and a club sandwich. Sam pays for his meal and settles in across the table from Cassie. The food doesn’t smell much better than the kitchen, but he knows from prior experience that it is edible; he can eat it and not die immediately. It might kill him eventually, but by that point, no one will never know it was because of the food. The taste is one of the many indignities of Sam's life that he ignores to stay sane. He puts down the salt shaker and stirs his soup.

Cassie takes a deep breath. Sam watches his spoon to give her some space.

He braces himself for the worst but puts aside his suspicions. It's practice to get the witness’ story before inventing one in your head. He’ll ask questions if he needs to—while eating; he only has 20 minutes.

It suddenly occurs to Sam; this is not a witness. It’s not a case. Those days are behind them. This is Dean’s girlfriend and whatever she tells him is not about the family business. It's going to be about all the family that Sam has left.


	3. Chapter 3

Sam stands by the living room window, practicing pentatonic scales on his guitar when Dean stumbles through the door. His keys jingle like a Salvation Army Santa Claus. A brown paper bag of Sam-can-guess-what rustles noisily under his arm. He practically slams the door shut.

“Where have you been?”

Dean blinks as if he’s surprised to discover that Sam still exists. He drops his bag onto the table and his body onto the couch. The smell of him is oppressive, even from across the room. Liquor and motor oil. Has he had sex? Absolutely, yes. Has he had a shower? Probably not in days. The odor floats around and through Sam like a haze, painting a vivid picture of Dean’s weekend.

Sam shakes his head, incredulous. Then, Dean does something he usually doesn’t anymore once he’s on the couch; he gets back up. He stalks over and plants his feet firmly in front of Sam. He stinks like a homeless person.

“This shit is getting out of control, isn’t it,” Dean says, to which Sam can only scoff. Dean swipes a single finger over Sam’s brow, wiping his hair from his eyes. “Five minutes and a pair of clippers, Sammy.”

Sam can scoff all he wants. He loves it. He hates how much he loves it. He lets the shiver run its course over his skin, down his spine, through his cock. He doesn’t move, just waits. It’ll pass.

There. Passed.

He launches an admittedly lame counterattack. “I wouldn't let your drunk ass clip my fingernails.”

Dean laughs. His spiky hair is more ruffled than usual. Even though they’ve been living as civilians for half a year, he never lets it get more than a couple of inches long. Still, Sam can always tell when Cassie, or some other girl, has been riffling her fingers through it. Or gripping it tightly, scratching at his scalp. Doing something to him that Sam isn’t allowed.

Sam swallows back the bitter, slimy mess in his throat. Bile. He’s not going to make himself sick with want again. He stopped doing that over a year ago. Mostly, Sam is good and solidly repressed, but when thoughts like this bubble to the surface and threaten to get out of hand - when he starts feeling like he wants to cry or beg or do something insane like telling Dean exactly how he feels, what he wants - Sam goes on the offensive. 

Dean calls it being bitchy. Sam calls it basic survival. He turns up his nose, “Gunner is looking for his car, and he’s fucking pissed.”

Profanity. That’s good.

Except Dean laughs at that, too. “Yeah, I bet he is. Sweaty fuck.”

He pats Sam’s cheek - the same stupid, condescending gesture Sam had suffered from Gunner—then returns to crumple his bag down around a six pack. Ever gracious, he raises the first can to toast Sam.

“Jerk,” Sam mutters and carries his guitar into his room.


	4. Chapter 4

Every Thursday night, Sam has his gig at McNulty’s Irish Pub. He can't comprehend how anyone can endure three straight hours of his singing when he gets tired of his own voice after the first twenty minutes. Cassie spends most of the time huddled in her booth, staring at a page that never seems to require turning.

Usually, Dean is there, too, but he had been ‘asleep’ on the sofa when Sam started lugging his PA equipment out of the apartment. It’s safe to assume that’s where he still is.

When Sam first started playing this bar, nobody seemed to give a shit that there was a real live kid up there, singing his miserable heart out. So, he would close his eyes to shut them out, too. Now, no matter how rapt the audience is or how loud they clap between songs, he can’t seem to break the habit. It’s a lot easier to pretend he’s alone and singing for himself.

At the end of the night, he announces that it’s time for his last song. A woman staggers up to the stage and hoots through cupped hands, “Sweet Home Alabama.”

Sam leans away from the microphone to answer politely, “Sorry. I don’t really play that song.”

“Come on, cutie. It’s easy.” The woman begins shouting the chorus through her makeshift megaphone.

She climbs on wobbly legs and six-inch heels, onto the stage and reaches for the mic. A loud thud sounds through the speakers when her hand connects with the stand. Thankfully, by this point, Cassie has alerted Chris, the bouncer, who escorts her back to her friends. They all clap and slap a beer into her hands because she’s clearly suffering from a lack of alcohol. Sam hears the word “epic” from that corner of the room.

He ends his set with “A Fond Farewell” by Elliott Smith, like he always does.

A dozen or so people, mostly girls, intercept him on his way to his seat. He slouches his shoulders and shifts his weight onto one hip, so he doesn’t tower over their heads. He still does. Most of them hold out Sharpies and white ceramic mugs for him to sign. He huffs to himself. If someone had told him people would latch on to the mugs like this, he never would have believed it. Some things have a life of their own.

One girl offers him her forearm. His brow shoots up and he looks down into big, brown eyes. She’s about his age with too much makeup slathered all over her pretty, round face.

“You want me to write on you?”

She nods eagerly.

“Um. Okay.” He searches the crowd to see if anyone else finds it as strange as he does. They’re all just watching, some giving a distinct impression they wish they had thought of it. “Just my name?”

Her grin broadens, and she nods again. Sam chuckles at the insanity of it, but sees no reason not to grant her request. A guy steps in between them, shakes Sam’s hand and grunts, “Good set, man.”

Sam murmurs, “Thanks.”

Giving autographs is surreal, considering that he hasn’t done anything other than sing a few songs at a bar on a Thursday night. He never got this kind of appreciation when he was saving lives, except from the vics themselves. Nobody else knew who he really was or how much he and his family sacrificed to make the world a better place. Sam has killed and almost been killed in the line of duty. These people treat him like a hero for playing the guitar.

Sam empties his tip jar. The bartender pays him. He piles his PA into the backseat of the Impala. Cassie waits by the door, buttoning her jacket despite the warm, early April breeze.

***

Sam has been in Cassie’s apartment once before. Dean’s had been an immense failure that culminated with his - now 21-year-old -brother knocking the homemade cake from the table, stumbling through the icing, and crashing face-first into a meticulously, stacked pile of garbage. 

Cassie was using said garbage for one of her projects. She had called it ‘art supplies,’ though. There is a fresh pile of not-garbage lining the wall when they enter. It takes up half of the 400 square foot efficiency apartment, but at least it doesn’t stink. 

It actually smells pretty nice in here: an earthy, sweet fragrance like cinnamon, but not cinnamon. Cassie keeps the room dim without it being gloomy, as if she had lit candles, but it’s probably just low watt bulbs.

Sam's not sure why he’s here now and stands in the middle of the floor looking at his feet, thinking he should have just gone home. Cassie presses a cold shot glass into his palm.

“Should you…,” he starts to ask.

She knocks back her own drink before he can figure out how to frame the question. Then, she commandeers his, empties it and nests the glasses together with a quiet clink. “I forgot you don’t drink. Why is that?”

Most people assume it’s because of his age. It’s fine with Sam if they think that. It’ll carry him over another three and a half years without having to just rudely not explain how much he hates what alcohol does to people.

Cassie lowers herself onto a bean bag. “Do you have any idea how talented you are?”

Sam lowers his face, so she doesn’t see him blush. “I know how much you like my music and I appreciate that.”

“Understatement, Sam. Massive understatement.” She stretches out and closes her eyes, black curls falling around her shoulders.

Now, Sam looks around. He would rather not be imagining all the places his brother has had Cassie. Instantly, the idea of touching anything or sitting anywhere curdles his blood. He still can't figure out why the hell he's here.

Needing something to do with his idle hands, Sam moseys over to the pile of found things and sifts through like it’s the most intriguing heap of trash he’s seen all day. To Cassie’s credit, it kind of is. There’s a chipped bowl with a bunch of used tissues in it. Sam turns his nose up at that. But there are some cool tidbits, too, like a CFL lightbulb that’s been filled with rice so that’s it’s actually a funky maraca. He shakes it and grins. “You working on an exhibit?”

Cassie replies without moving or opening her eyes, “Yeah, actually. I got a commission, which pretty much never happens.”

“That’s good.” Sam picks up a decapitated plastic dinosaur. He can’t even guess what kind of art she’s going to make with this.

“Do you want to sit down?”

No.

He sits. There are other beanbags, but he takes a spot on the floor by the pile of trash, because he doesn’t think that Dean would have sex there. He might. Sam wouldn’t put it past him, but there’s a chance that he hasn’t.

“So, next Tuesday?”

“Works for me.” Tuesday is Sam’s Saturday. It’s the one day of the week when he doesn’t have anything to do - except for next Tuesday, when he’s going with Cassie.

Sam yawns and thinks, not for the first time, that it could be nice. They could have life around them for a change; something new and fresh and good. God knows they could all use something good. “You ever think….

“No,” she cuts him off. “I’m a realist, Sam. Dean can barely take care of himself. And I wouldn’t ever do it alone.”

“You wouldn’t be alone. I mean …” Sam stops himself before he volunteers for something he can’t even fathom.

Still, he hasn’t made peace with the alternative. He and his brother are trained killers. He’s more than okay with death, but the things he’s killed were evil. They deserved to die. This is different.

“Stop thinking.”

Sam flinches as Cassie tosses something at him. It ricochets faintly off the wall. He never does find out what it is. It’s probably something interesting that could be turned into art.

“And don't tell him, okay? He doesn't need to know.”

With a silent nod, Sam agrees to lie to his brother. He watches Cassie fall asleep and then, slips out of her apartment, making sure the door is locked behind him.

***

Dean holds his beer between his legs, staring at the TV as if it were on. Empty bottles lay strewn like corpses over the coffee table, the couch and the floor.

Sam carries his GED study guide with his finger on the page as if he’s reading from it. “Hey, you busy?”

“Saving the world, Sammy.” Dean huffs and has a swig.

It’s not like Sam has never kept secrets from his brother. He does it all the time, constantly. Some privacies are a matter of self-preservation. Others are just to keep the peace. If Sam doesn’t tell him what Cassie’s about to do, it’s betrayal, plain and simple.

“We have to do this essay. For my, you know, for the thing.”

Dean pats the cushion right next to him. “Come sit.”

The sofa was here when they moved in - a shabby, moth-eaten, puke-green lump that has no right to be as comfy as it is. Dean has totally seized it. He hardly ever sleeps in his own room, so the upholstery smells like him now. For that reason alone, Sam avoids it. 

He perches closer to the edge than Dean indicated - practically pressed up against it. Then he hops up onto the arm, putting a little more distance between them. He keeps the cover of his book facing Dean. It’s a stupid trick, but the best way Sam could think of to broach the subject. “It’s on Roe v. Wade and I was wondering…”

“Yeah, I already know about that.” Dean takes another long drink.

Sam closes the book and pointedly does not watch his brother swallow. He hears it, though, because Dean has never been concerned with etiquette. As if to prove it, he belches and blows his foul breath right into Sam’s face. He follows that up with a wicked smile.

Sam fans the rank air away from his face because that’s what he’s supposed to do. That’s his part. Then, he’s supposed to call his brother a jerk, so he does. “What do you mean, you know?”

“Saw the pregnancy test. Blue cross means positive.”

“You were going through her trash?” Sam hopes he sounds more indignant than relieved.

Cassie had asked him not to tell, and technically, he hasn’t told.

“She puts her trash on display.”

Sam can’t argue with that. “Why didn’t you --”

“Say something? She didn't say anything to me. I’m just returning the favor.” Dean has another loud swallow and smirks. “But apparently, she told you.”

“Don’t. Just don’t even...” Sam gets up to leave. He refuses to have this conversation again.

Also, Dean is too close. Even with the foot of sofa between them, Sam feels the heat radiating off of him. He can’t hold his breath anymore. God only knows the last time Dean thought about a shower. It’s awful, and Sam wants to complain, but he’s afraid his brother would see through it.

Or worse, Dean could come closer and make a big, dumb game of pinning Sam down and rubbing his armpits in his face. Then, Sam would have to take another shower himself or else spend the day smelling like his brother. He’s already fighting off a fucking erection as it is.

More than anything, Sam wants is to taste him. He dreams of licking all the salt and acid and agony from his brother’s body until his skin glows again like it used to when they’d ride, chasing the sun all day. Since they left the road, Dean has gotten sickly-sallow and paunchy around the middle. That hasn't changed anything; Sam still wants him.

Sam transplants himself to the window, opens it a crack for fresh air and counts all the red cars on the street. Then, he counts the blue ones, then, the white. Mindless, automatic tasks always kill the arousal. It’s a technique Sam has cultivated over the years, out of necessity, because how the fuck else was he supposed to survive puberty in Dean's pocket?

Not that this madness started with puberty. That’s just when Sam could no longer be grateful that his thoughts weren’t inscribed across his forehead. Starting at age eleven, most of his worst ideas had been written out in the perpetually tented crotch of his jeans.

At one point, it got so bad that if Dean so much as complimented his shooting, Sam’s face would heat up and he’d have to run/crawl/weep away. He’d seek out the nearest/farthest tree where he could pretend to need to piss. So, he had developed this method to distract himself and it had saved his life. Now, brown cars.

Sam had also learned how to bring himself off, in complete silence, in under a minute, but he’d had to phase that out, because of the chafing.

“I told you. I told you that night. You didn’t want to hear it.” Dean won’t let it rest.

Sam shakes his head. “She didn’t tell you because…”

“I’m listening.” What Dean is doing is smirking and being an asshole.

“Cause you’re always like this.” Sam drops the book on the table. The boom it makes is quieter than gunfire, but satisfying nonetheless. 

Dean’s grin doesn’t even falter. “I'm always right.” 

“You're always a jerk.”

Dean snickers ing to himself when Sam storms out of the room. He’s missed his line. He hasn’t called his little brother a bitch since ' ** _it'_** happened, though. Sam wonders if he ever will again. He used to hate it. It’s a stupid thing to miss.

***

The brothers Winchester met Cassie Robinson the only time Sam he ever played that song about the mug in public.

Back then, he was still cutting his teeth on the open mic night. He’d won it three times in a row, though. Dean had been gracious enough to come along and drink up the prize, a $50 bar tab. It was a tough job, but he was just the right guy to do it.

Just before he wrote that song, Sam had been cleaning his dad’s stuff out of the car. It had been over a month since ' ** _it'_** happened and he’d had a strong urge to lighten the load. Of course, he had chosen a time to do it when Dean was thoroughly 'asleep.' Even though they didn’t need most of Dad’s stuff anymore, his big brother would never be able to let it go.

Dad’s clothes and shoes didn’t fit either of them, although Sam had tried on a pair of his boots one more time. They were too small, which struck him as weird. He’d never realized that his father had smaller feet than he did - and Sam probably was still growing.

He’d kept a few things, of course: weapons, the journal. Most of it, he had neatly folded and placed in a green plastic bag to donate to Goodwill.

Down, at the bottom of Dad’s duffel, Sam had found a pair of socks with a white mug inside. On the side of it were the words ‘Greatest Dad Ever’ and a picture of a hand giving a thumbs up.

They didn't usually do birthdays. John Winchester had trained that kind of sentimentality right out of his boys. The most they’d ever get was a pat on the back and maybe extra pancakes. Since he turned eighteen, Dean would buy a case of beer for himself, which he always offered to share with Sam. Sam always accepted one because he knew it was important to his brother. Then he'd sit and watch Dean get wasted to the point that Sam had to help him undress and get to bed.

The year Dad had turned 45, they were twelve and eight. Dean happened to have some money in his pocket. He also happened to see that mug at a gas station. He wound up having to borrow a dollar from Sam, who had argued like a lawyer not to give up his little bit of money.

In the end, they had presented their father with the damn cup. It was the only time Sam ever saw John Winchester look like a real person instead of a historical figure. He didn’t sob, but his nostrils flared, eyes got glassy before he turned away.

Sam hadn’t realized Dad still had the thing, but it had been rolled up safely in a pair of Navy issue socks. Sam couldn't bring himself to throw it away. That's what the song was about - the things we hold on to, the things that remain.

He had actually kept lots of his dad’s socks, too, because he always seemed to have holes in his, but that didn't make it into the song.

That night, when Sam was done singing it, he stood there, blinking his eyes open. Dean had left their table. No one clapped. No one was talking. They all just kind of stared at him. Even the bartender, who usually couldn’t be bothered with what was happening onstage. Then, one pair of hands started quiet, cautious applause. Before he knew it, the whole place erupted.

He could have played an additional song for his slot, but the waterworks were just about to crash into the back of his face. All kinds of people stopped him on the way to his seat, reaching out like they all needed to touch him to be healed.

By the time Sam sat down, he felt heavier and lighter all at once. He dropped himself into his seat and let out a huge sigh. Dean was back in his seat, apparently studying something at the bottom of his upturned glass.

Usually, Dean’s feedback consisted of ways to "man up" the set: add some Sabbath or Metallica. Then Sam would invite him to come up and do a few songs together. After all, the guitar used to be his thing. He was the one who had taught Sam his first song.

Dean waved off the suggestion, when it used to be that Dean who was comfortable being seen. This was the kind of thing Sam’s older brother would have leaped at in the old days. He used to get up and do “Desperado” every time there was karaoke at a bar. Then he would threaten to murder Sam with his bare hands if he ever mentioned it. But he loved hamming it up. That used to be Dean's thing.

When he was a little kid, Sam would cower with fear when someone overheard him singing along.

“Like an angel,” they always said. “You sound like a little angel.”

Public singing might as well have been how angels die. Sam would never have believed in a hundred years that he would be singing in public for money. But playing McNulty's pays better than bagging groceries. If he's honest with himself, it feels good, too. It’s like the therapy he so badly needs, but can’t afford.

Sam reached for his cranberry juice just as a small hand fell on his shoulder. He turned to face the lovely girl with a sad smile. Even back then, he had wondered about that earthy sweet smell.

“I just wanted to tell you.” She bowed her head. “That song … I … my dad. My dad and I were really close. And he … He recently passed away, and I don’t think I’ve ever heard anything that summed up the experience of losing him and … I just wanted to personally thank you.”

“Yeah. Um. You’re welcome.” It was a hollow response, but Sam was on the verge of echoing her cracking voice, so he settled for brevity.

As she walked away he sat back in his chair and huffed. “Wow.”

Dean nudged Sam with his elbow. “There's your mark.”

“Shut up.” Sam shook his head and downed his drink.

“I tell you, that girl is going to spread like butter. Slick you up nice." Dean would always whisper that kind of obscenity in Sam’s ear, breath whiskey-hot, while he smiled like a saint at the girls across the room. “You got a lot of other options, but that would definitely be my pick.”

“Could you not?” Sam leaned away from the smell and heat of him, a warmth spreading over his face that could only be blossom-bright. 

“You asked.”

“I never did.”

“Yeah, well. I’m telling you. That girl is already dripping for you.” Dean had another slug of his drink, baring his teeth, no doubt at the sting he favored.

Sam winced. “She’s in mourning, Dean.”

“Yeah, well, so are you, apparently. What the hell was that song?”

Sam curled his fingers around his glass. “It was a song.”

“Never play that shit again.” Dean watched the girl like an assassin.

She was with friends but kept looking back over her shoulder. Dean nodded that ‘I’m so fucking cool’ greeting back at her. “She likes you.”

“How can she possibly like me? She doesn’t even know me.” Sam rattled his ice.

Dean just kept nudging him. “You should go talk to her. Buy her a drink.”

“Dean. She was just saying she liked the song. She didn’t issue a formal invitation into her pants.”

“If you don’t, I will,” Dean said with his eyes laser focused on his prey.

Sam smiled weakly the next time she turned around. Her smile was just as feeble, but accompanied by a bat of her eyelashes. Dean stood up and squared his shoulders. “You or me? Who’s she fucking?”

“You’re a bad person.”

“Maybe. But I'm gonna take care of myself, and I'm gonna take care of that sad, little girl.” Dean finished his drink and slammed the glass on the table.

No matter how sloshed he got, Dean was always like water with women. He could just sidle in next to them all smooth and easy, finding their cracks and making them squirm, smile, laugh and open up to him. Sam looked on in wet-faced wonder.

Dean had left that night with his arm around Cassie’s waist. Sam swallowed the last of his watered-down drink as she lowered her dark eyes and smiled at whatever Dean whispered into her ear. Sam bowed his head, like a dunce in a corner waiting until they were gone. Then he left, with his guitar on his back and his collar turned up against a bitter wind.

He had let himself into the cold, dark apartment. Without taking off his jacket, he sat down at the kitchen table and wrote a song about how they got to where they were. It was one he’d never sing in front of anyone. He just needed to get the poison out of his system.


	5. Chapter 5

~ **THEN** ~  
Halloween, last year - Fort Bliss, TX.

_It was supposed to be a routine salt and burn, but they were soldiers, trained for any eventuality. They were trained to take kill shots without second guessing themselves, especially when it looked like one of them was in danger._

_Ghost was immediately ruled out by the lack of EMF activity. The next step in the routine demanded they rule out every other damn thing on the list of potential disturbances, so they had split up to make the job go quicker._

_As far as Sam could tell, they had been creeping around the army base on a moonless night, and Dean had only seen a shadowy figure barreling toward Sam. He reacted with precision and ferocity that would have made their father proud. The only problem was that it was their father approaching Sam. It was their father who Dean took down._

_Sam doesn’t think about it in detail anymore. He doesn’t go over and over it in his mind the way he knows Dean does because that’s how Dean is. Sam doesn’t want to remember. He wants to forget, to let it go and move on with his life. Dean will torture himself to his dying day. It’s just how he is._

_Dad had given them a talk about friendly fire and the agony of discovering you’ve just taken out one of your own men. He had brushed over it like a lesson in a textbook. They were trained for any other eventuality and unprepared for this._

_Sometimes Sam dreams of dark, glassy eyes staring up at him. He remembers his father’s head, heavy in his lap and blood pumping warm and steady between both of their fingers. In the moment, all he could think to say was, “_ Breathe _. Just breathe, Dad. You’re going to be okay.”_

_As the words slipped between his lips, Sam knew it was a lie._

_Their father was not going to be okay. Dean stood over them with a very not-okay look on his face. So, Sam had to be okay for all of them. He pursed his lips and kept repeating, “Just breathe, Dad.”_

_“Go.” John Winchester’s last word burst through a bubble of red-tinged saliva that streamed down his cheek and ruined the only pair of Sam’s jeans that still fit._

_Eyes still wide in a hollow gaze, their father had left them with a final instruction. For once in his life, Sam obeyed without question. He grabbed Dean’s arm, but his brother had gone leaden, feet bound to the ground where he stood. “We’re not leaving him.”_

_“We can come back.” Sam rolled with two blows too wild to be_ pre-meditated, _before he landed one of his own._

_Dean reeled, stumbled backward and finally appeared to register the approaching sirens. They had less than a minute to disappear or be apprehended._

_Sam grabbed his brother by the shoulders and shook him firmly. “Dean. We have to go.”_

_Dean hardly moved his feet but allowed himself to be dragged to the car. As Sam patted him down for the keys, he noticed Dean’s shiver, although it was early fall in Texas and nowhere near cold. Sam reached into the backseat and tossed a blanket over him._

_Then, he drove until the gas light blinked a warning. Once the tank was filled, he pissed on the side of the road with the car still running, and drove straight through until morning. Sam grabbed a drive-thru breakfast that Dean refused to acknowledge, let alone eat. He sat behind the wheel with his eyes closed and a jacket over his head. Sleep didn’t come - only images of his father’s eyes and that trail of pink spit on his face. Sam rested until he felt like he could drive again. Then, he gassed the car up and drove some more._

_In the 24 hours that followed, Dean got out of the car only to relieve himself. Otherwise, he showed no desire to move, which is why Sam finally pulled over. Sam was no stranger to shock, having dealt with his own bout of it on his first hunt. For the life of him, he couldn’t remember how his dad had dealt with it, so he just did what felt best; he got his brother something real to eat._

_'Real' is relative, but they were sitting in real chairs at a real table, instead of eating off of the dashboard. Rufi’s was the name of the joint. It looked like the kind of greasy spoon, hole in the wall that Dean would choose. Out of the corner of his eye, Sam registered a handwritten Help Wanted sign in the window._

_Dean was no different at a table than in a car. He stared at the burger Sam ordered him as if he had forgotten what food was for. Sam waved a fry in front of his brother’s face. After a few seconds, Dean blinked up at him. He ate (slowly and very little), but he ate._

_Sam was forcing back every bite, as well, but their dad always said, ‘The body is an engine. You got to keep it fueled.’ Not that Dean had ever required convincing, before now. Sam was the picky one who preferred fresh, green food to just about anything else you’d offer him. Now, he was choking down Dean’s grease-laden burger, because they couldn’t afford to let it go to waste. And he couldn’t stand to see it just sitting there any longer._

_Dean turned his aimless gaze out of the window._

_“How about pie? I’m pretty sure I saw pie.”_

_Dean didn’t even blink._

_“Hey. You got…” Sam pointed to the ketchup stain on Dean’s chin._

_When his brother made no indication that he had heard or cared, Sam dipped his napkin into his ice water and stood to reach across the table. He wiped Dean’s face first and then cleaned his hands._

_That distinct, unpleasant feeling of being watched made Sam turn to find the woman at the table next to them smiling with pity and fascination. As he surveyed the restaurant, he discovered that every single person, including the waitstaff, was watching them._

_Sam didn’t even wait for the check. He slapped down a twenty and grabbed his brother’s elbow to help him to his feet. The bell over the door rang as they escaped the place._

_Sam stood at the trunk of the Impala, counting what was left of the bills he had found in his father’s duffel. $313. It would be enough to last them another couple of weeks. He could make it stretch if they ate peanut butter sandwiches twice a day and drove back south so that they could sleep in the car. Sam shut the trunk and squinted through the back window. Dean was just sitting there._

_Before hopping on the highway, Sam stopped to gas up the car. As he pumped, his mouth gaped wide with a yawn that he couldn't suppress. With a heavy sigh, he looked back and forth between the open road and the small town._

 

***

 

_Sam parked in front of the Walmart. Towards the middle of the night, a brief squall blew through that dropped the temperature considerably. Sam's chattering teeth woke him. He rubbed his hands over his goose-pimpled arms and pulled on his jacket. Even then, he watched the tiny puffs of breath for a few seconds before reaching for a share of Dean’s itchy, Army issue blanket. His brother peered back at him, eyes appearing black in the strange light of the nearest streetlamp._

_“You okay?”_

_Sam hadn’t expected an answer, and he didn’t receive one._

_The next morning, he drove to McDonald’s and forced himself to eat a stack of pancakes. He put Dean’s aside for later since no amount of cajoling and flying fork airplanes seemed to spark his appetite. He just kept turning his face away like a stubborn baby._

_Sam washed his hair, face, and pits in the sink of the_ bathroom, _pulled on the one decent shirt he owned and went for the interview._

_Rufus, the owner, was a slim, older gentleman with dark skin and white teeth that were constantly on display. As they moved through the kitchen, he stuck his nose into a huge vat of chowder and smiled broadly, and patted the chef on his shoulder. “Get you a coke, Sam?”_

_Sam had never actually liked soda much but accepted the drink to be cordial. Once in his office, Rufus grinned again and gestured toward the chair. He pored over Sam’s resume for a long time. Sam pursed his lips and folded his hands on his lap. His foot began to tap, but he forced it to stop. He had spent the entire previous afternoon putting together a_ believable, _and almost entirely falsified, resume. One item on there was true: he had actually had his own leaf raking business when he was 11, but that was short-lived, as they had left Pittsburgh after six weeks._

_Rufus looked up at him with his brow furrowed. Sam curled his lips into a tight smile and wiped the sweat from his palms onto the knees of his slacks. With all the life-threatening situations he had been in, somehow this was the most nerve-wracking experience of his life so far._

_“Seventeen, huh?” Rufus asked._

_Sam had thought about lying. He had a couple of fake IDs that would put him at 20. Tall and quiet, most people assume he’s older than he is. But he didn’t know how long he would be here and didn’t feel like answering to false names for weeks or months._

_Sam couldn’t remember the last time they had settled anywhere for more than a few weeks. It had been over a year. Since then, Sam had been doing his senior year by correspondence, which was a total drag._

_Rufus frowned. “You a runaway, Sam?”_

_The question caught him off guard. He had thought of running away, more than once. He had even dreamed of going to college at some point. The counselor at his last school had put the notion in his head, and he hadn’t been able to shake it. But now, with Dad gone and Dean … gone, the idea had slipped off the backburner. It might as well have been crunched down the garbage disposal. He really only had one priority right now. That, at least, simplified things._

_He answered, “No, Sir?”_

_“You a dropout?”_

_Sam gripped his knees tight, steeling himself for further interrogation. “No, sir. I’m taking care of my brother.”_

_Rufus made a note on his paperwork. “What’s with your brother?_

_“He’s … not well.” Sam had a sip of the soda to wet his mouth but found it hard to swallow the syrup and fizz._

_He always forgot just how much he hated this stuff until he had it again._

_“So, it sounds like I can count on you not to leave me in a lurch. Last time I hired a kid your age, it turned out to be a huge mistake. Just took off, no explanation, no nothing. If I take you on, I’m going to need at least a six-month commitment. Can you do that?”_

_“Yes, sir.” Sam surprised himself with the immediate answer._

_Rufus pursed his lips, mulling it over._

_“If I may, sir. My father was military.”_

_“Was?” Rufus quirked a brow._

_“He’s… passed away.” Sam nodded, compelling himself to keep speaking. “But I know all about hard work and discipline. You hire me, you’ll be glad you did.”_

_That must have been the right thing to say; Sam started bussing tables the next day._

_***_

_The moment Sam opened the door, the smell hit him like a surprise left hook. He held his breath and slid into the driver’s seat. Dean didn’t appear to have moved an inch since Sam left him parked in the National Forest that morning. He was still sitting there, with the blanket over his legs, staring out of the passenger’s window at the trees._

_Sam sat the plastic bag between them. “You need to wash up or something.”_

_The bottom of the containers wasn't warm anymore, but it was going to have to do the trick._

_“I’m not trying to be mean... All right. Sorry. Whatever. How was your day?” Sam paused for as long as it would take Dean to answer._

_“I know you’ve been wondering where I went. I’m going to tell you, but you have to promise not to be a dick about it.”_

_He unfurled the newspaper over Dean’s lap. “I didn’t want to say anything until I got an idea of how it was going to be. Don’t flip out, okay? I got a job.” Sam winced as if Dean was going to ream him out._

_“It’s not bad. I mean, today was okay. First day and all. Oh yeah. It’s at that place Rufi’s. Remember? With the curly fries. You liked ‘em, right?” Sam opened the styrofoam container, revealing lukewarm rice and limp vegetables._

_He stirred Dean’s, hoping it would rustle up some warmth. “I’m just a busboy, but it sounds like I can work my way up to waiting tables in a few months if I … you know… it’s something. You wouldn’t let me starve, right?”_

_He molded the plastic fork into Dean’s hand. “I know what you’re going to say. Hustling is fast money and maybe, if you were…”_

_Sam took a hard look at his brother. He had a deep breath and focused his attention on unpacking his own meal. “I thought about hustling. It was never really my thing. You know that. So, this is going to have to do the trick for now. Also, anything cooked and not sold at the end of the night is free all we can eat. You’re welcome. Rest of it goes to charity. That’s cool, right?”_

_Sam glanced over one more and said, “Bon appetit. It’s French. Means dig in.”_

_The corner of his mouth twitched up at the bullshit Dean had told him when he was a kid. “Hey. Come on. You haven’t eaten all day. Just... Have a bite, okay? It’s not half bad. I mean, I’ve had worse. You’re going to love it."_

_Dean didn’t budge._

_Sam bit his lip, nostrils starting to flare. “Dean. Would you please just eat a little bit? For me.”_

_Dean’s head moved, almost imperceptibly, but he didn’t turn. He sure as hell didn’t raise the fork to his mouth._

_“All right. You know what? I’m going to eat and leave yours here, and you can eat when you’re ready._ Allright _? Whenever you’re ready, it’s right here. Okay?”_

_Sam stuffed a slice of slimy, cold green pepper into his own mouth, but could hardly get it to go down. He had to force himself to swallow it. “You know what? I had a big lunch,” he said, as if not to concern his brother, who hadn’t even acknowledged his presence. “Rufus is a good guy. Really generous. To a fault. Like, I wonder how he makes any money. You ever wonder what dad…” He stopped himself. Or the catch in his throat did._

_There was no reaction from Dean._

_“What any of us would have been like, you_ know, _if things had been different? I do. All the time. You? I guess you’d be getting out of school now. I think you’d be one hell of a PE teacher. Is that random?” Sam laughed to himself._

_He started to pack Dean’s food away. “All the girls would be so into you, but you wouldn’t fuck them, because… you just wouldn’t. Mom and Dad would… I don’t know, when I get done with college, they’d sell the house in Lawrence and buy a place in Florida and wait for you to get married and have kids and then, Mom would insist they move wherever you are so she could take care of them. Then, I’d…” Sam shook his head and shut his mouth, stopping the unrestrained flow of words._

_He placed the bag of food carefully on the back seat._

_“Used to wonder what kind of girl would you marry. If…” He huffed. “Yeah, I know. I’ll shut up."_

_Sam used to break his own damn heart with a constant fear of Dean making a permanent hook up. It used to make him half-sick every time Dean would pick up a girl. What if it was a forever thing and Dean_ scrammed _on them and left Sam with their father and..._

_He closed his eyes and tried to sleep. That was a lost cause. “You ever had a job? Like a real job?”_

_Sam got the reply he expected: more silence._

_Finally, he fell asleep to a fantasy of his older brother waiting tables, flirting with everyone, leaning against the bar to count his tips at the end of the night._

_***_

_Sam worked his first double two days later. Grueling was an understatement. It was hard to tell which was worse: the ache in his knees from all the standing or the hellish heat in the kitchen. Sam was used to hiking when necessary, uncomfortable beds almost always, sitting in the car for days on end. But there was something about being on his feet for fourteen hours that felt on par with any torture his dad had described._

_Around 8 PM, with still an hour to go on his shift, he slumped into a booth he was supposed to be clearing and rested his head on his arm. The hand that landed on his shoulder startled him. But when he looked up, Rufus was smiling down at him. “When you’re done with your nap, go help Doris bring her equipment in.”_

_Sam took a second to collect himself. Then, he looked around to try to figure out what he was supposed to do._

_Doris turned out to be a forty-something woman with frizzy hair and a guitar strapped to her back. Sam helped her carry in her PA equipment and followed her directions to set it up. Since he was genuinely curious, she showed him how to unfold the stands, where to plug all the cables, how to adjust the sound and EQ. By the time they were done, she had announced to Rufus that they had a new sound man._

_Sam smiled and went back to work._

_He had been expecting a concert. What he got was better than anything he could have imagined. Over the course of the night, twenty different amateur acts got up and performed everything from poetry to monologs from famous movies. There was comedy and Broadway, jazz, rap, pop and even one girl singing original songs._

_The only thing they didn’t have was a dance routine, and that was probably only because there wasn’t enough room on the tiny stage. Nothing seemed to be off limits, although there was far and away more music than anything else._

_More than once, Sam found himself leaned against the wall, listening. If he didn’t actually enjoy what an act was doing, he was still utterly fascinated that anyone would have the courage to get up and do anything in front of an audience. The idea was more horrifying than anything Sam had ever faced. He clapped heartily for every single performer - even the really bad ones - for precisely that reason._

_After he had clocked out, Sam sat in a booth at the back of the restaurant and watched the rest of the show. At one point during a particularly bad stand-up comedy routine, he caught Rufus’ eyes and exchanged a smile, realizing that this evening had warmed him like nothing had in a long time._

_***_

_It was after midnight when Sam got back to the car. As soon as he opened the door, his spirits lifted at the smell of the food blended in with Dean’s awful BO. He smelled like shit, but he had eaten. Sam slid into the driver’s seat._

_It took him a second to realize that the sharp odor was urine. Dean had pissed himself and apparently sat in it for a while, because it was strong. Or maybe he just wasn’t drinking enough. Probably he wasn’t drinking enough and Sam needed to remember to make him drink more. And take him to the bathroom more often. And make time to clean out the Impala._

_Bits of food were everywhere. It looked like Dean had passed up the fork and torn into the meal with his hands. Grains of rice clung to the stubble on his face, and his shirt. There was even some in his hair. He had tossed the container on the floor when he was finished - eating, not finished the food. His feet were covered with rice and vegetables._

_Sam shook his head and rubbed a hand down his face, trying to figure out how he was going to go about this._

_“What kind of son are you?”_

_Sam’s eyes shot open. He didn’t even register the words, at first, because he was too elated by the sound of his brother’s voice. It was rough and lower even than usual, like a man who hadn’t spoken in over a week._

_“Hey. Welcome back.” Sam smiled softly, breathing a sigh of relief that the worst of this must be behind them._

_Dean turned his face out of the passenger’s window and murmured, “Coward.”_

_His voice was quiet, but he might as well have been shouting._

_“Dean, look.” Sam sighed. “You think he'd want us locked up? Because you know that’s what would have happened. If we had tried to carry him out. If we had stuck around Fort Bliss. If we had gone back for him, we’d be sitting in prison right now. We broke onto an Army base, destroyed Federal property.”_

_“Fucking coward.” Dean’s voice was louder that time._

_Sam gnashed his teeth and took the abuse. At least Dean was talking. It was better for him to lash out at Sam than take it out on himself._

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

_Walking to work, Sam stopped in front of an acoustic guitar hanging in the window of a pawn shop he hadn't noticed before. The $175 price tag got his feet moving again. On his walk back to the car after work, he turned his head just once, for a second, to look at it._

_Dean didn’t talk that night, but he ate half of the cold burger Sam brought. That felt like progress._

_The following morning, Sam left himself a few minutes to go into the pawn shop before work. The guy behind the counter wore a baseball cap and gave the distinct impression of having had tequila shots for breakfast. He nodded courteously when Sam walked in and waited a solid ten minutes before he asked, “See anything you like?”_

_Sam stood there, breathing deeply, admiring every scratch and crack on the instrument. It had been more than a year since the last time he had touched a guitar. Sam would never have been so bold, but the shop owner took it off the hook and placed it right into his hands._

_The first thing he could think of was Tom Petty, “Free Fallin.” He played the song, humming to himself._

_The owner came over and folded his arms over his chest. Sam stopped._

_“Go on.”_

_So, Sam went on. On the chorus, the guy threw back his head and crowed like a rooster. “Freeeeeee. Free fallin’.”_

_Sam subdued his laughter into a smile but kept playing. When the song was finished, the owner clapped and hooted like he was in a stadium. “Where'd you learn how to play like that?”_

_Sam’s face warmed as he scoffed. “I can't play. Just a few chords I picked up from my brother.”_

_“He in a band or something?”_

_Sam laughed. “No. Nothing like that. We just strum a little. Goof off, you know.”_

_“Sure. Well, you sound pretty damn good to me” The man gestured to the guitar, still in Sam’s lap. “Needs a home. I could knock off ten for you.”_

_Sam hung it back on the hook._

_He had never asked his dad for new shoes, not even when the ones he was wearing started to pinch his toes or leak in from the bottom on rainy days. He didn’t ask for different clothes, even though his dad and Dean’s style didn’t gel with the way he felt about himself. Not that he had any idea what clothing would, but he’d been wearing Dean’s Army/Navy hand me downs since forever._

_And sure, he had once mentioned an interest in soccer, which had merited Sam a severe tongue lashing about the dangerous lack of focus. But mostly, Sam didn’t ask for anything. If he wanted something, he kept that information to himself._

_But he wanted that guitar - so much it shocked and pained him. The simple act of hanging it back on the stand made his gut twist. “I appreciate it, but… it doesn’t fit my budget right now.”_

_“Well, come back when it does. Maybe it’ll still be here. Never know.”_

_Sam nodded tightly and forced himself toward the door before he could cry._

_“Kid.”_

_He glanced back over his shoulder._

_“If you want, you can come by and play it - ‘til it sells.”_

_Sam nodded, not expecting to want to torture himself that way. Still, he thanked the guy and got to work on time._

_Dean didn’t talk that night either, and he didn’t eat._

_The next morning, Sam left the car an hour early and made up the time in the pawn shop, trying to remember how to play Springsteen songs while the pawn shop owner, whose name was Bobby, squawked like a chicken from behind the counter. It was truly atrocious singing, but somehow Sam couldn’t stop smiling._

_When it was time for him to get to work, Bobby waved and said, “See you tomorrow, Sam.”_

_***_

_“I figured out how we’re gonna do it.” Dean had found his voice again, which was good._

_The problem was that he only had the one topic._

_Sam had managed to hack into the Fort Bliss morgue database. He showed his brother the John Doe listing for a dark haired Caucasian male, late forties with a Semper Fi tattoo. He hadn’t found a photograph, but the details and timing were too great to be circumstantial._

_In retrospect, Sam wasn’t sure what he was thinking showing Dean that. Maybe he figured it would calm his brother, somehow, to know that their father’s body was in capable hands. There wasn’t anything more that Sam and Dean could do for him. But he should have known that it wasn’t how Dean would see it. Even Sam knew it wasn’t entirely true and it was no surprise to him when Dean announced, “We got to get him, salt him and burn him. Ideally, we leave tonight.”_

_“Tonight?” Sam laughed, nodding facetiously. “Really? You think you have the energy to dig a grave or am I supposed to do that by myself? We’re not going anywhere, okay? At least, not right now. When the thing cools down, we’ll go. Not before.”_

_Sam had surprised himself with his assertiveness. He had also shocked Dean into submission, which was a first for both of them. It also proved Sam’s point. If he could win an argument, and that easily, Dean was in no condition, mentally or physically, to go exhuming, salting or burning._

_Dean looked down at his hands, and Sam lowered his voice. “We’ll go, all right. Just … not yet.”_

_***_

_The bell over the door rang as Sam stepped into the pawn shop. Bobby stepped out from the back. Sam smiled and waved. The old man’s face immediately brightened and then, fell. “Tough news, kid.”_

_Sam already knew what that meant. He stopped in his tracks and took a deep breath. Bobby gave his head a pitying shake._

_“Come here, you.” He gestured with his hand and disappeared behind the black curtain that partitioned off his inventory room._

_It was a miraculous mess, complete with a skeleton on a stand. With a cursory touch, Sam identified the bones as rubber, but still. There were trunks of various sizes that looked like they had been delivered by 15th-century Spanish merchants. There was a whole section of broken electronics and another for instruments. “I usually have a hundred thousand guitars in here. As luck would have it, I’m cleared out.”_

_“You mean as my luck would have it.” Sam clarified._

_Bobby pulled out a small case and popped it open. “Well, I’ve got this here baby guitar.”_

_It was ¾ the size of the one he was playing before. It looked like something a child would play. Sam knew he was not getting any smaller._

_“I could part with it for fifty.”_

_Sam’s eyes shot open. He regarded the tiny thing. It seemed ridiculous, but when Bobby handed it over, it felt okay. Maybe even a little better than the other one, somehow. And it would be easier to drag around. Dean would have less to complain about. “I still don’t have the money.”_

_“Come on, Sam. I’m trying here. I really am.”_

_Sam chuckled. “I know, Bobby, and I appreciate it.”_

_Even at fifty bucks, a guitar was a luxury and Sam had mouths to feed._

_“Well, play “Dancing in the Dark” and get out of here.”_

_Before Sam could start to play, Bobby was talking about his daughter who had taken lessons for years and never got as good as Sam. “Some folks are just natural like that.”_

_Bobby started out singing the song. When he forgot the lyrics in the second verse, Sam took over. He got all the way to the end of the chorus before he realized that Bobby was staring at him. “Shit, kid. You got some serious pipes on you.”_

_Sam lowered his head to hide his blush._

_“I mean, geez. Wish I could sing like that. You take lessons or something?”_

_Sam laughed and shook his head. “No way.”_

_“Well, then. I guess you just got a gift._

_***_

_Sam fell asleep practicing chord positions in thin air and dreamed that he was actually playing. Whenever he got a down moment at Rufi’s, he ran songs in his mind. He hummed or whistled most of the day, until Manny, the dishwasher, started calling him ‘Colibri,’ which means hummingbird in Spanish._

_A few days later, Sam came into work after his morning practice session. A redhead in a plum-colored hippie skirt had her face so far in the pot of soup, she might as well have been stirring it with her pointy nose. Sam’s brow raised as he leaned against Jose’s shoulder and whispered behind his hand. “What’s with her?”_

_“La esposa del jefe. Mal humor.” The grill cook answered with equal stealth and gestured with a slight nod that Sam should get back to work._

_Sam grinned to himself. His Spanish had come along. He made a mental note that the boss’ wife had a mean streak and shrugged into his apron._

_A few hours later, his arms were laden with a basket of dirty dishes when the woman stood in his path, effectively blocking his access to the kitchen. “You’re Sam.”_

_Her accent totally threw him for a loop. “Um. Yeah.”_

_He looked longingly at the sink behind her. She glanced over her shoulder, following his gaze and stepped out of the way. He smiled, gratefully and carted the dishes over to Manny. His eyes flicked over Sam’s shoulder. Sam turned around to find Rufus’ wife five inches behind him._

_He smiled down at the tiny woman again as she openly appraised him from head to toe. “Come to my office.”_

_“Um. Yes … ma’am.” Sam fell in line behind her, casting a helpless peek over his own shoulder at Manny, whose pitying expression deflated Sam’s hopes for a friendly chat._

_Sam entered Rufus’ office to find his boss’ wife, roosting on the edge of the desk with her hands clasped patiently in front of her. “Close the door.”_

_Her voice was demanding, but Sam found the cadence of her brogue enchanting, in a strange way. He folded his hands and steeled his jaw, awaiting further instruction._

_“Why don’t you have a seat?”_

_The location of Rufus’ ‘talking to’ chair would have put him about five inches from her knees. “I’m fine. Thanks.”_

_Her face fell, but only slightly as she lifted her foot into the seat she had just offered him. It’s only then that Sam realized that she wasn’t wearing any shoes. Some sort of gypsy bangle hung from her ankle, and her toenails were painted purple. “I’m sure they’ve all told you I’m a witch.” She winked. “It’s only because I refuse to tolerate laziness and stupidity. I can already tell neither is going to be a problem with you. Am I right?”_

_Sam smiled. “Yes, ma’am.”_

_“Of course. I always am.” She dropped her dainty feet, and her skirt swished like wheat in the wind as she waltzed along to the business side of Rufus’ desk._

_A Manila folder lay out before her. “It only lists a PO box here.” She looked up at him, awaiting an answer._

_“Yes, ma’am.” Sam swallowed thickly, increasingly concerned about the direction the conversation was taking._

_“That leads me to believe that you’re some sort of itinerant. You don’t look homeless to me, but looks can be deceiving, can’t they?”_

_“I suppose so. Yes.” He lowered his eyes from her penetrating gray glare._

_“So, where are you staying?”_

_“Uh…” He had two options: tell the truth - that he’s living in his car, illegally parked in a National Forest or he could lie. Neither was good._

_“Sam?”_

_“Yes, ma’am.”_

_“I’m exceptionally good at keeping secrets.” Her voice was a whispered promise._

_So, he told the truth. She nodded thoughtfully and hummed an acknowledgment._

_“Well…”_

_Sam braced himself for the worst, which would have been her picking up the phone and calling the police. He was already planning an escape._

_“That isn't exactly convenient, is it?”_

_He let out a whoosh of air in relief._

_Rufus’ wife smiled at him. “What is that, a three-mile hike one way?”_

_He nodded. “Yes, ma’am. About that.”_

_“Well, that won’t do at all, will it?” She snickered a little._

_Sam chuckled, too. “It’s kind of a drag. Ma’am.”_

_“Sam. You keep ma’aming me, I’m going to start aging on the spot.”_

_He laughed out loud, feeling a ton lighter._

_“How old do you think I am?”_

_The laughter stopped short as he snapped his mouth shut. He honestly hadn't thought about it._

_“Really. Take a guess.”_

_“Thirty-five?” He lowballed on purpose because he's young, not stupid._

_She threw her head back and laughed. “Close.”_

_Her neck was paper-white with a black collar bound around it. Sam had to force himself to look away._

_Rufus’ wife left Rufus’ chair and sauntered back around the desk again, deep violet skirt swishing between her legs. “You're adorable, you know that? And I am feeling incredibly generous in your company.” Her hand was feather light on his arm. “I’m going to make a few calls, and after work, I want you to come somewhere with me. Okay?” Her voice lilted high like she was talking to a pre-schooler._

_But it was also kind of nice, in a weird way._

_“Sam?”_

_“Yes, ma’am. I mean…” It occurred to him that he didn’t even know her name. “Mrs…”_

_She leaned close and spoke softly. “You can call me Ro, but only we’re alone.”_

_Sam swallowed and nodded dumbly. “Okay.”_

_“It’s Mrs. Turner when we’re out there. So?”_

_“Um.” Sam racked his brain, but couldn’t recall the original question._

_“After work? Unless you have a hot date.”_

_“No. It's... my brother. He ... I have to see about him.” Sam squeezed his eyes shut to stop himself from rambling._

_“Older or younger?”_

_“Um.” He really had to do a better job of paying attention._

_Mrs. Turner. Ro gave him the feeling that she was always a few minutes ahead of him - like his brain was submerged in muddy water: bobbing weightlessly, struggling to process what’s happening. With a little effort, he remembered what she had last asked him. “Older.”_

_“Does he look like you?” She winked and grinned._

_Now, Sam was fully confused. “No. Not much actually.”_

_“Older? And you're looking after him? Is he, what do you call it, special needs?” She spoke the words carefully, cocking her head to check if she had offended him._

_Sam took a deep breath, the strange comfort he had sunken into began to evaporate at the mention of Dean and his current condition. “Something like that.”_

_“Well, then, we'll go pick up your very special older brother and then go.”_

_***_

_When people say, “not much,” they’re talking about apartments like this. The Winchesters had stayed in worse places. It was better than sleeping in the car, even despite the many roaches that didn’t even bother to scatter when they walked into a room. Sam had never been a huge fan, but it’s no worse than the restaurant. Bugs usually freaked Dean out, but he didn’t seem to notice._

_Rowena did a slow 360-degree turn with her hands on her hips. “I think this will do. It was a little challenging to find something with two bedrooms to fit your budget. You’re a little old share a room with your brother, right? Come.”_

_She grinned and took Sam’s hand. He checked back over his shoulder to find Dean standing in the middle of the floor eyes unfocused, as per the new usual._

_Sam stuck his head into the bathroom. It was like the rest of the place: sufficient. “Do you know how much they’re asking?”_

_“Why don’t you let me worry about the first month’s rent? You get on your feet first.” Rowena plopped down and bounced on the foot of the mattress. “Do you like it?”_

_“Oh. I couldn’t -”_

_“Why not? I have money. It’s my pleasure to help people who need help.” She smiled._

_Sam huffed, his mouth opened and closed a few times. “I hardly know what to say?”_

_“Then, don’t say anything.” She patted his chest as she traipsed through the door._

_Sam dropped himself on the sofa. Dean stood, staring out of the window._

_“Crazy, right?” Sam shook his head and surveyed the apartment - their apartment. “I’m going to run to the car. You wanna just….”_

_Dean didn’t turn or nod or do anything to acknowledge that he’d heard his brother speak. Sam hoisted himself up and went out to get their stuff. He dropped Dean’s duffel in his room and tossed his own on his bed._

_Not that either room was particularly huge, Sam had claimed the smaller room just as if Dean had demanded it be so. Kid brother, short end of the stick. That always seemed fair to Sam. He had always followed his brother around, holding onto the hem of his shirt - literally, when he was really small._

_He took out his few, ratty items of clothing and put them away in the lopsided dresser. Dad’s journal went into the top drawer underneath his socks and underwear. He laid the picture of their family on top and smoothed his hand over it. He was a baby in the photo, Dean was four. Their mom and dad looked so freaking happy. It was really hard to imagine that a moment like that had ever happened._

_Sam put away Dean’s clothes, as well, holding his nose to one of his t-shirts before he folded it and stuffed it into the drawer._

_There was a huge bag of chocolate and candy at the bottom. Sam smiled to himself and tossed it onto Dean’s bed. Underneath of that, Sam found a black and white composition notebook. He held it in both hands, staring at the front page. There was no title, no name, no nothing. He shook his head, dropped it back into the duffel and kicked it under the bed._

_Sam glanced over at his brother on his way into the kitchen. There was a can of coffee on top of the fridge and a tea kettle on the stove. So, he set on some water to boil. As it turned out, the grinds were stale and old. He dumped them into the sink and carried the container back to his room._

_Sam fished the wad of money out of one of his sock. He counted it out on the mattress: $257. He’d be getting paid next Friday. He wrapped a rubber band around it, dropped it into the coffee can and replaced it on top of the fridge._

_Hands supporting his weight on the door frame, he leaned into the living room. “Hey, you hungry?”_

_Dean didn’t respond in any way._

_“Yeah, me, too. I think maybe I’ll run down to the corner, get us some hot dogs. How do you like living so close to a 7-11? Right up your alley, huh? Hey. You still haven’t taken off your coat.” Sam walked over and unbuttoned Dean’s jacket._

_He offered a sad smile and tried for eye contact. He sighed when Dean only stared past him out of the window. Sam slid his hands in and over his brother’s shoulder to help slip him free of the outer layer. The stench underneath it was even stronger. Sam shook his head. “Dude, you’re going to have to bathe.”_

_He was pulling Dean’s hands through the sleeves when there was a knock on the door. The moment he opened it, Rowena gave him two white plastic bags filled to the brim. He carried them to the kitchen counter and then, followed her to the car. They carted in bags of food and toiletries and even some linens. Rowena buzzed about choosing places to put things away. Finally, she looked at him with a tight grin and hands on her slim hips. She gave a little nod. “That really ought to do you for a while.”_

_“I don’t … I can’t… “ Sam closed his eyes for a second, to stop the stammering. “How am I supposed to repay you?”_

_“Don’t you worry about that, lad. You two get settled in.”_

_Sam couldn’t remember the last time someone had just done something kind for them out of the goodness of their heart. It happened occasionally, but it wasn’t commonplace. He fell asleep audibly telling himself to get over the uneasy feeling it gave him and to just accept that people can be kind sometimes. Winchesters are allowed to have good luck for a change._


	7. Chapter 7

_When Sam flinched awake something was crawling on his face. He flicked the insect away and looked up to see a dark silhouette in his open door. He recognized the shape of Dean almost instantly, but that didn’t stop his pulse from sky-rocketing or his heart from jumping into his throat. “Dude.”_

_Sam dropped his head back on his pillow. A few moments later, he managed to crack his eyelids enough to see that his brother was still hovering there, staring at him. Opening both eyes wide was too much effort. He settled for the left eye, halfway. “You need anything?”_

_There was no response. That was nothing new._

_“You have a dream or something?”_

_It had gotten pretty intense in the car at times. In his sleep, Dean would scream and kick and throw blows like he was trying to tear the upholstery apart. Sam had only made the mistake of trying to wake him once. After that bloody nose, he had decided it was better just to let Dean’s subconscious try to work out what it had to work out._

_But now, Dean wasn’t raging. He was just standing there, being weird._

_“Dean, you ok?” Sam sat upright in his bed, rubbed his eyes and chuckled uncomfortably. “Dude, you're freaking me out.”_

_He dug his cell phone from under his pillow: 2:13 AM._

_“Why don't you go lay down, okay?” Sam wiped a hand over his face and tossed his legs over the side of the bed. “Or not.”_

_He stood, crossed the room, tucked his hand on the inside of his brother’s warm arm and walked him back across the hall. “All right. Just…”_

_He sighed and started to leave, but Dean caught his hand._

_“You want me to stay? Okay. I can do that. Um. Just let me go get my pillow.” Sam’s attempt to leave was thwarted a second time. “No? Okay. Okay. Fine. Whatever you need, I'm here, okay. Do you want to go back to sleep?”_

_Sam definitely wanted to go back to sleep. He had no idea what Dean wanted, only that his face was all pinched up like he was in pain._

_“Talk to me, Dean. I... I want to help. I just ... What do you need?”_

_Dean blinked at Sam's lips. His own were parted so slightly, it was barely noticeable. Sam did notice it, and warmth burst in the center of his chest like the death of the sun._

_Dean looked up at his eyes. His mouth twitched like he was trying to speak. Then, his gaze dropped to the floor._

_Sam stood stunned and speechless. He had worked so hard to banish those kinds of thoughts about his brother. For the last year, he had forced himself to think of other people when he beat off. He had cried his stupid eyes bone-dry and half-shriveled, watching Dean with his constant string of hook-ups. He was finally at the point where he could almost honestly say that he loved his brother, but he wasn't in love with him._

_He wanted Dean to be happy and for everything to just be okay. That was the truth._

_Sam swallowed thickly and used one finger under his brother's chin to lift his face. He whispered, "What do you need?" trying not to think of all the answers he wished Dean would give._

_With the dim light of the streetlamps barely penetrating the dirty window, Sam sensed more than he saw the desperation misting in Dean’s eyes. He wanted to kiss his brother so badly, it burned. It inflamed and consumed him until he whimpered out loud._

_Dean buried his face in Sam's shoulder. He clutched Sam’s shirt, shudders deteriorating into open-mouthed sobs. Sam let out a small burst of air. Here he had been salivating over Dean again when his brother needed him. Needed him not to be a freak._

_Carefully, he wrapped one arm around him, then the other, drawing Dean close. Too close. Too warm and perfect, and Sam had to think of rats to keep himself from getting hard._

_A full year of work on himself gone down the drain in a matter of minutes. Whatever. Dean needed him. He could deal with his own demons later. Sam stroked his brother’s hair, his fingers slipping through grease and dirt. He had gotten used to the smell, mostly, but the situation was urgent and gross. Dean needed a shower._

_Maybe one day prior, Sam could have helped him without thinking much of it._

_But his problems didn’t matter. It had to be done. “Come on.”_

_He patted Dean’s arm. Calm again, his brother lifted his head, revealing a wet stain on the shoulder of Sam’s shirt._

_In the unlit, unfamiliar apartment, Sam took Dean’s elbow, like he was leading a blind man. As if he knew where he was going. Somehow, they found the bathroom. Sam flicked on the light and Dean flinched._

_“Can you do this by yourself?” Sam took a deep breath and thought, ‘please.’_

_Dean stared at the ground, looking pale and wasted even though pretty much all he ever did anymore was sleep and gaze out of windows._

_Sam’s cheeks puffed up as he blew out a loud breath and nodded to himself. “Okay.”_

_He wiped a hand down his face and stepped forward to undress his brother down to his boxers. He followed his own strict orders not to look at even a sliver of Dean’s skin. He kept his eyes trained on the floor. Dean didn’t fight him, but he didn’t help either._

_Finally, Sam molded the bar of soap into Dean’s hand. He didn’t drop it, but he didn't look at or move to use it._

_“Come on, man. Meet me halfway here. You smell like a fucking dumpster.”_

_Dean looked up, face drawn and anguished and it shouldn’t have been beautiful. But that was a torture Dean couldn’t help. Everything he does is beautiful. Everything about him - and dammit, Sam was looking. He couldn’t help himself. He’s a human being, not a saint._

_“Okay. Okay. No problem." Sam scoffed._

_He breathed deeply again and nearly burst into tears as he dropped to his knees._

_He had dreamed of being in this position under very different circumstances, and he was not sure he could do this: any of it, anymore._

_But if he didn't take care of Dean, who else would?_

_Sam chewed the fuck out of his lips until they were raw and bloody. He curled his fingertips under the elastic of Dean’s boxers. His brother’s stomach muscles tightened beneath Sam’s knuckles, probably a reflex. Sam froze anyway. Dean’s hand, the one without the soap, rested over his._

_Sam gazed up into his brother’s face, and Dean suddenly looked so calm. Sam was the one who was losing it. He was the one who was a shaking, rock-hard wreck with tears streaming down his stupid face. Sam was the one whose voice trembled and broke when all he was trying to say was, “I need to wash you.”_

_If Dean only knew what Sam was thinking, he'd punch his lights out, instead of looking down like some all-forgiving deity._

_“You need to... “ His voice caught in his throat, and he decided not to try to speak anymore. Maybe ever._

_Another bolstering breath and he very slowly pulled down his brother’s underwear. Dean’s cock sprung up, mostly erect. And maybe that's reflex, too. When someone is on their knees, breathing on your crotch, it's probably kind of hard not to get ideas._

_Sam had all sorts of ideas: illegal ones in graphic detail. Ideas that could get him killed because if Dean knew, he would assume that Sam was possessed and try to exorcise him. Then, he would discover that it wasn’t a demon, just Sam’s own depraved mind. Then, Dean would kill him._

_Sam can function with an erection. Given the circumstances, he would rather not have had one, but he ignored it and tore his own clothes off. As a precaution - against precisely what, he wasn’t sure - he left his black briefs in place._

_He held Dean’s hand and helped him step into the shower. The water pressure wasn’t great, but it was better than washing up in a sink. There was barely enough room for just one of them. There was no way for their skin not to touch in the tiny space. Sam hunched his shoulders together and tried to make himself smaller._

_Their dad had already pointed out, last summer that Sam was taller than his older brother. He hadn’t shown any signs that he was done growing. Dean still poked fun of his bird chest. At least he had last summer._

_Taking the soap from Dean’s hand, Sam reached up and scrubbed at his brother’s filthy, matted hair. Dean leaned back into the touch, exposing the long arch of his neck. Sam made the glaring mistake of glancing down and nearly came in his underwear. “Jesus.”_

_He took a moment to let the waves of heat pass._

_Then he exhaled and gently pushed Dean, so he was directly under the shower head. Hair rinsed, Sam began to wash his brother’s face. Dean closed his eyes, and Sam’s lower lip began to quiver. It would be so easy just to lean in four - maybe five - inches and kiss him. It actually required more effort not to do it._

_Dean’s eyes opened again, brow furrowed like he was searching for Sam, who could only muster a pained half-smile. Satisfied, bottle-green eyes disappeared again, and Sam rubbed little soapy circles over his forehead and cheeks. He drew a stripe of soap down his nose and Dean actually smiled. Not much, but still._

_Sam washed Dean’s neck and his arms, both of which were surprisingly filthy. His skin was a few shades lighter once he was rinsed. Then, Sam took one of Dean’s hand into both of his own and began to wash, one finger at a time._

_More than once, he had to stop. There was no explanation for why that should be so hot. Maybe it was because, after his eyes, Dean’s hands were Sam’s favorite thing. He wanted so badly to twine their fingers together - just to know what that would look like - what it would feel like. He settled for a slow, slippery tug on each finger, while subconsciously sucking on his own tongue._

_Sam brought the hand up for inspection. As he’d expected, there was a cake of black grime under Dean’s fingernails. Sam used the tip of his own thumb to scrape them clean. When he held it up to take a second look, he imagined just kissing the knuckles or pressing them to his own cheek. He dropped Dean’s arm gently and took the same meticulous care with the other side._

_Hands thoroughly clean, he lifted Dean’s arm above his head and started to lather up the hair in his pit. Dean immediately yelped and yanked away. Sam shrank back for a second, unsure of what was happening. Then, he realized his brother was grinning and clutching his arm to his side. Sam chuckled. “Sorry. You want to do it?”_

_Dean didn’t speak, but he loosened enough to let Sam wash armpits three times. It was necessary. Once again Sam shook his head, subduing his freakish desire to lave over Dean’s pit to prove how very clean he’d become._

_He opted to wash Dean’s back first, thinking that would be easier. It wasn’t. With Dean facing away from him, Sam bored his eyes into the space between his shoulder blades to keep from looking at his ass._

_But even just Dean’s back was torturous: broad and strong, the muscles flexing slightly beneath Sam’s hand. He rubbed in ever growing concentric circles until that one shoulder shined like a new penny. Then Sam washed the other shoulder, his ribs, and sides. He finally finished scrubbing down to his waist and spun him so they were facing one another._

_Dean’s eyes met his and Sam tried that weak smile again. His mouth barely moved. His mind was coming unraveled: like this was some sort of psychological torture inflicted upon him for the sins of his thoughts._

_He kept the bar of soap in his hands as he washed over Dean’s chest. It was a good trick, a clever way to keep from directly touching his skin. It was a way to keeping himself from melting into a useless lump while his hand roamed over almost every inch of his brother’s solid pecs and ribs and abs. Almost every inch, because Dean still had a bandage over those stitches he had gotten after the last hunt. Sam made a mental note to take a look at that and change the gauze in the morning._

_Sam surveyed his brother. His upper body was dutifully washed, hard-on not even slightly flagged. Sam huffed and sniffed loudly, letting a fresh wave of heat wash over him._

_“All right. You need to…. Come on, Dean, just fucking…” Sam blathered, trying to force his brother to take the soap._

_His fingers wouldn’t even curl around the bar anymore._

_“Come on. You can fucking wash your own…” Sam pressed his lips together._

_There were three options: wash him, let him smell or let a plain water rinse be enough._

_That last option sounded pretty good. The thing was, he needed soap. Bad. Like rinse and repeat, multiple times._

_‘It's just body parts.’ That’s what Sam told himself. Doctors do it. No big thing. Only Sam is not a doctor, and Dean was stiff as a double-edged sword, and his eyes were skewering Sam._

_He swallowed, exhaled shakily, dropped to the cracked, cold floor of the shower and washed Dean’s legs. His brother never wears shorts, since he’s so weird about the bowed knees that Sam finds, unsurprisingly, beautiful. His legs are a lot hairier than Sam would have imagined and it took a long time and a lot of scrubbing to remove the suds._

_He lifted Dean’s foot onto his knee and washed his ankle, his sole and in between his toes. Again, he had the incredible urge to press his lips to the instep of Dean’s foot. He traced his finger over the spot and placed it back onto the ground before washing the other._

_Standing again, he noticed that his brother looked sleepy. Or at least his eyes were lidded, head drooping. Sam had one final task, and then he could put them both to bed. He could get a few more hours sleep before getting up for work._

_He looked down at Dean’s rigid cock and cleared his throat. He rubbed some soap off between his hands and wrapped his palm around the base. A radioactive surge threatened to consume him. He took a moment to regulate his breath. His pulse was beyond control._

_Sam licked his lips and slid his hand all the way to the tip, throat constricting as he passed over the head. Dean was thicker and longer than he was and he couldn’t have held in that moan for anything in the world._

_He rolled his lips between his teeth to muffle any further sound. Dean’s forehead fell onto Sam’s shoulder. His hips pressed forward, ever so slightly, fucking into Sam’s palm._

_“Oh my God.” Sam bit his lip, chest and face and cock on fire._

_He stroked his brother slowly, at first, telling himself this was a thorough cleaning. A minute later, Dean was good and spotless and panting hot against Sam’s skin._

_Sam ached to take his brother’s thigh between his legs, just to have the slightest pressure himself. Voices in his head quarreled as he fought to hold himself away from Dean._

_‘If he didn't like it he'd tell me to stop.’_   
_‘What if he can't, Sam, you freak? What if he is physically unable to tell you that you're hurting him?’_   
_‘Yeah right. Does that sound like pain to you?’_   
_‘Still, you're taking advantage.’_   
_‘I'm not. I'm ... helping him relax. He needs this. This is what he needs. I'm helping him.’_   
_‘You're helping yourself.’_   
_‘Is that so wrong? If it's good for both of us, is it wrong?’_   
_‘You’re a freak.’_   
_‘Leave me alone. I’m doing the best I can.’_   
_‘Freak. Freak. Freak freak freak freakfreakfreakfreak’_

_Dean spilled into his hand, a slick-warm stream over Sam’s fingers and then, down the drain, like it never happened._

_Except that Dean trembled for a long time after, all of his weight pressed into Sam's forehead. Sam held his spine stiff, ass clenched to hold himself steady and strong enough to keep them both upright when everything within him was crashing to the ground in flames._

_When Dean was finally still again, Sam pressed their chests together, reached behind him and slid his soapy fingers down the cleft of his brother’s ass. He used his other hand to hold the cheeks apart. Dean leaned against him, all of his weight. Breath quiet and calm._

_Sam didn’t breathe at all. The pad of his middle finger stroked over the tightly puckered entrance to his brother’s body, his erection mashed between their stomachs. Sam nuzzled his face against Dean’s wet hair, biting back the whine that ripped at his throat and maybe not managing to keep as quiet as he should._

_Sam closed his eyes. He took a final moment to revel in every point of contact: Dean’s face on his shoulder, his breath on Sam’s collarbone, his belly warm beneath Sam’s cock, the small of his back beneath Sam’s palm, his ribs rippling beneath Sam’s fingers._

_He committed it to memory, knowing he would never have this again. Biting a hole clear through his lower lip, Sam stepped back from his brother and out of the shower. He dried himself quickly, with one of the towels Rowena had brought, hung it up and got the other one for Dean._

_He turned off the water and spread the fabric wide, like a pair of terry cloth wings. With a tap on the arm, Dean stepped forward into it._

_Sam dried him slowly: first Dean’s hair, then, gently patting his face and shoulders and down to his feet. He slung the towel around his brother’s hip, took his hand and lead him to his room._

_He dressed Dean in a pair of gray sweats and a black t-shirt, stepped back and admired his handiwork with a tired smile. His lips parted a few times, as he tried to force out any words at all. He crinkled his nose, wiped his chin with his hand and nodded. The worst was over._

_Dean allowed himself to be lowered to the bed and tucked in. Sam stood over him and watched his eyes slip shut. Dean had probably had bedtime stories before Sam came along. No one had ever read one to Sam. The closest he ever got was Dean in bed beside him, recounting fairy tales to the best of his six-year-old memory._

_Sam stepped back from Dean’s bed to keep himself from crawling into it. He huffed, swallowed thickly and whispered, “Night, Dean.”_


	8. Chapter 8

_Sam wiped his eyes and yawned with his mouth open as wide as it would stretch. He looked at the phone and groaned. 5:30 AM meant no time for snoozing. He scratched his balls, swung his legs to the side of the bed and sat for a few minutes with his head rested in his hands, elbows on his knees. He moaned again and somehow, forced himself to stand._

_Sam pissed with one eye open and, then dragged himself into the kitchen. He put the kettle on to boil and wiped his eyes with his fist on his way back to his room._

_Rowena was a saint among women. One thing she had delivered was a fresh can of instant coffee. It wasn’t exactly gourmet, but it would get the job done._

_On his way to get dressed, he stopped at Dean’s door to be sure he was sleeping well and hadn’t kicked his covers to the floor or anything._

_The blankets were on the bed. The bed was perfectly made with hospital corners, just like their dad had taught them. It was also empty. Sam’s eyes shot open. He looked around the room, crossed the space in four steps and ripped open the closet, even though there was hardly enough room in there for anyone to hide. And why the hell would Dean be in the closet?_

_“Dean?” Sam called quietly, at first._

_As he covered the small distances between his Dean’s room and his own with faster, longer steps, his voice grew louder. “Dean?”_

_He checked the bathroom and the kitchen again. Then he stood in the middle of the living room with his hands on his hips, brow furrowed. He wiped his mouth with a palm and took a deep breath. Staring out of the window, he could see that grey-blue tinge of_ not-quite _morning. A trash truck passed noisily, making frequent stops so the men in their green jumpsuits could jump off and guide the machine arm on the back of the vehicle to lift the cans that had been set out by the people in the rowhouses across the street._

_He could also plainly see that the Impala was gone._

_***_

_There were precious few people out and about at such an early hour. Most of them walked with heads bowed, avoiding the wind and eye contact like both were poisoned. Only a handful bothered to stop for Sam’s increasingly pitiful plea of, “Excuse me.”_

_Sam didn’t have any pictures, so he was reduced to describing his brother over and over again to the few who would listen. A lady in a huge down coat and sensible white sneakers waited at a bus stop. She narrowed dark eyes at him and clutched her purse even closer to her chest._

_“I’m looking for a guy.”_

_One of her eyebrows lifted and Sam mentally adjusted how he’d start this conversation with the next person. “My brother is missing.”_

_She looked him over and pursed her lips, so he kept going. “He’s about my height. Kind of stockier.” He held his arms out from his sides. “Not fat or anything. Actually, he’s in great shape. Just broader, you know?”_

_Her eyes started to glaze over. Maybe she hadn’t had time for her morning coffee either._

_Sam soldiered on. “Short, kind of, sandy blond hair. Green eyes, um … kind of walks like a cowboy. Talks like one, too. Kind of like he watched too many John Wayne movies growing up. But he’s probably not talking at all.” Okay, that probably wasn’t helping, but Sam was starting to lose his mind._

_“What’s he wearing?” The woman looked down the street in the direction her bus would be coming and checked her watch before she tucked her hands back under her arms._

_“Um. I’m not sure. He doesn’t have a really good winter coat. He’s probably cold.” Sam’s eyes wandered as his teeth clattered._

_He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his jeans. It didn’t stop the bitter gale from whipping up under his jacket and slicing frigid and cruel against his skin._

_How on earth do you contain someone like Dean in a few words? In any words at all. Sam could say:_

_Dangerous. Generous. Completely Synthetic. Entirely Sincere. Hilarious. Corny_   
_Stubborn as all hell. Captivating._   
_Catatonic._

_It would all be true, and it wouldn’t yield any different results because the best word to describe his brother was Gone._

_The woman gave him an apologetic shake of her head and boarded her bus, leaving Sam alone with his inadequate descriptions and a marrow-deep hollow._

_***_

_When Sam dragged himself through the back door into the kitchen at Rufi’s, he was soused, shivering and two hours late. It had started to snow while he was searching - huge, sloshy drops that had drenched his hair in a matter of minutes. That hadn’t kept him from trying to stop everyone he passed._

_Already diligently rinsing, Manny grinned over at Sam as he hung up his soaked jacket. “‘Ey. You look like a wet dog,” he called out in his Mexican lilt._

_His accent and constant levity usually made Sam smile, but not today. Sam scowled at the puddle caused by his jacket_   
_dripping on the floor._

_“Yeah. You better get that up, before…” Manny jerked his thumb at the boss’ office._

_Sam grabbed a towel and quickly_ swiped _up the mess. He clocked in, aproned up and grabbed a brown plastic basket to go bus his first table. As he brought back the first load of dishes, Manny warned, “Yo, she was already asking about you? Better watch out.”_

_Sam nodded solemnly and slogged back out into the restaurant to clear the counter. As much as he did not want to incur Rowena’s wrath, (and as bad as he felt for being late the day after she had helped him and Dean to get a place), all he could think about was how far Dean must have gotten by now._

_Dean had the car - oh yeah, and the money. The asshole had taken the coffee can containing every last dollar they had to their name. Sam now owned the $.47 in his pocket or else he would be on the road already, heading due south towards Fort Bliss. That had to be where Dean was going._

_Sam had tried calling him, first thing. On the second ring of Sam’s, Dean’s phone had echoed the sound from under a pillow on the sofa. His other lines had gone straight to voicemail._

_Sam had considered hitchhiking, but in the end, he decided he would be better off waiting the three days for his first paycheck and then heading out for Texas. He could only hope his brother didn’t land himself in prison - or worse - by then._

_He wouldn't have believed that Dean had the presence of mind for driving, but apparently, that was an incorrect assessment. Sam hadn’t even realized that Dean had noticed him putting the money in the coffee can. It would seem that Dean was a lot more cognizant than Sam had been giving him credit for, which basically meant that his brother had run away to keep Sam from molesting him again._

_That realization struck him just as a customer stepped out of the bathroom. Sam ran into the door and dropped the full tray of dishes, splashing coffee onto her gray business suit and shattering every single dish in the tray._

_His nose stung, eyes welled up as he gawked down at the spilled remains of people's breakfast and shards of broken porcelain. The business lady was yelling at him, and he couldn’t even process the words she was saying._

_Dean wasn’t running to get back to their father. He could have done that at any time. He was getting away from Sam._

_“Sam.”_

_Rowena sounded like she was speaking through a roll of toilet paper. When he was little, Sam and Dean used to pretend those were walkie talkies and play GI Joe in their motel rooms while their dad went out on hunts. Dean was his best friend, his only friend. He had counted on Sam to take care of him, and Sam had abused him. Sam had given him no choice but to run away._

_When the small hand landed on his shoulder, Sam’s head snapped around. Rowena’s face blurred through the gathering tears._

_“Come with me.” Her voice was stern, but Sam’s mind was too jumbled to care about the tongue lashing he was about to get._

_The door to the office closed behind them, and he stood there, staring through the picture of a stack of pancakes on the wall behind Rufus’ desk._

_“Sit down.” Rowena gently coaxed him into the chair._

_A loud gust of air forced itself out of Sam’s open mouth. Both of her hands were on his face, her eyes searching his. “Are you sick, lad?”_

_Sam scoffed at the bitter irony of her question. His nostrils flared wildly, and he lowered his quivering chin to his heaving chest._

_“Sam. Take a deep breath.”_

_It was a few minutes before he could follow her instruction. Even then, it was damn near impossible through his trembling lips._

_“Good. Now, another. Very good. Look at me. Look at me, Sam.”_

_Sam swallowed thickly, sucking his lower lip between his teeth. He forced his eyes to meet hers._

_“Good.” She gave a smile and encouraged him with a nod to do the same._

_“Dean.” He forced out the name, nearly slipping into another episode._

_She nodded, kneeling in front of him. “Okay.”_

_Sam could barely bring himself to utter the words. “He’s gone.”_

_Rowena’s brow folded in contemplation. “Do you have any pictures?”_

_Sam shook his head._

_“Okay. Don’t worry. I’ll fix it.” She stroked his hair in long, smooth caresses. “Did you know Rufus used to be a cop? He knows every good guy and every bad guy in this county. We’ll find your brother, Sam. Fret not.”_

_As strange as it was, Sam didn’t argue or shrink away, like he thought maybe he should, because as foreign as her hand felt on his head - like it didn't belong there, it also felt nice. And sometimes people just need something that feels nice._

_“Do you trust me?”_

_Sam looked into Rowena's earnest gray eyes. His own were beyond his control: stinging, leaking, blinking rapidly while he sniveled like a toddler with a scraped knee._

_Eventually, he nodded because it was true. Sam and Dean were trained not to trust anyone who didn’t have the same last name. But Sam had officially run out of reliable, fully sane Winchesters, so he had to go out on a limb._

_Rowena smiled and patted his hand with a surprisingly warm palm. “Good boy.”_


	9. Chapter 9

_In the alley behind the restaurant, Manny handed Sam his cigarette and dropped the skateboard to the pavement. He pushed off with one foot and sailed past the overflowing dumpsters and the mashed up boxes, straight toward the makeshift ramp he had fashioned out of a crate and some plyboard._

_Sam studied the filter first, then the glowing ash on the other end. He turned up his nose at the thin, acrid billow of smoke rising from his hand._

_His dad used to smoke. And sometimes, when Dad was away, Dean would have a cigarette hanging from his lips when he finally came knocking on the passenger window to tell Sam that his ‘guest’ had left. Sam would watch, hypnotized, by the thing between his big brother’s thumb and forefinger. Dean took long, serious_ drags _and blew the smoke up between his simpering lips. Then, he would launch into vivid, unrequested details about his latest conquest._

_Sam’s eyes popped at a loud crash at the other end of the alley. Manny stumbled out of the pile of trash with a grin on his brown face. “I’m okay.”_

_He kicked his skateboard back up the alley toward Sam and limped after it. ”Fuck, man. I think I sprained my ankle.”_

_“Can I see that?” Sam returned Manny’s smoke and practiced tipping the skateboard up into his hand with his toes - just getting the feel and weight of it._

_“You ever ride?”_

_Sam shook his head. He had watched guys in the park sometimes, but there had never been an opportunity before now._

_“Watch out, man. There’s glass in there.”_

_The tip of Sam’s tongue stuck out in concentration as he balanced on the thin board with just his right foot. Once he felt he had the hang of that, he kicked off. For a moment, he floated with the wind in his hair._

_Sam’s first crash was a thing of unparalleled beauty. His gangly arms flailed in every direction as his overlong legs flew out from under him like a character from a cartoon. He gasped and howled as he went down. A rush of adrenaline assailed him just before he landed hard, face first against the pavement._

_Manny ran over and bent down with his hand on Sam’s back. “You okay?”_

_Once he caught his breath, Sam shoved himself up to his knees. His face was viciously abraded down one side. His nose bled profusely. He cradled his aching right wrist in his left hand. A small grin played at his lips._

_It wasn’t hunting, but it was good._

_***_   
_It was dark and cold in the apartment when Sam let himself in, well after 1 AM. He had gotten off work at 8 and spent the time in between walking up and down every block, asking after his brother._

_Sam’s duffel was packed by the door. The second he cashed his check, he’d be on the road, looking for Dean._

_No matter where he_ was, _if Dean didn’t want to be found, he wouldn’t. That wasn’t going to stop Sam from looking, though._

_He slumped forward on the couch and ran both fingers through his hair. Draping his arm over his eyes, he took a deep breath. He thought of Dean, driving away from him and all Sam could do to keep himself from breaking down was to just breathe._

_***_

_The bell over the door was no cause for attention. Sam went on clearing tables until he heard Bobby’s voice wishing someone a Happy Birthday. Sam turned to find his friend from the thrift store holding out a small guitar case. When Sam only gaped in confusion, the man practically shoved it into his chest. “Here you go, kid.”_

_“What?”_

_“Looks like it's your lucky day. Somebody came in and bought it for you.”_

_“What?” Sam stared at the case in his own hands, like he wasn’t sure what it was._

_“Am I stuttering? It's yours. There you go.” Bobby held out both arms._

_“Wh…” Sam stopped himself from repeating the same brilliant question. “Who?”_

_Bobby shrugged. “Not allowed to say. Somebody says they saw you come in on numerous occasions, asked what you had your eye on and voila.”_

_“I can't just …”_

_“You can and you will. Bought and paid for. Yours. Don't be a stranger.” Bobby waved as he high-tailed out of the door, the bell ringing above him as he exited._

_Everyone was looking at him, so Sam ducked back into the kitchen. He had planned to just_ lean _the guitar up against the coat rack, but Manny’s eyes lit up as he pointed at the case. “Can you actually play that thing?”_

_Sam shook his head. “Not much.”_

_Manny wiped the water from his hands onto his apron and took Sam’s guitar. He quickly tuned the instrument and started to play and sing something in Spanish. Jorge, the grill cook, warbled a harmony. He did a little two-step, twirled around on the greasy floor and pretended the spatula was a microphone. When he tossed the thing into the air, it clattered to the floor, but he quickly picked it back up and wiped it off on his apron. Then, he went on singing, dancing, and flipping burgers._

_Grinning madly, Sam managed to clap his hands together precisely twice before the boss’ door swung open. Manny hid the guitar behind his back. The frown on Rowena’s face was almost comical in its intensity. Jorge choked back laughter as he glanced over his shoulder. Sam and Manny stood still and silent like naughty kids on the playground._

_When Rowena stood toe to toe with Manny, they were exactly the same height. “Is that yours?”_

_The dishwasher lifted his chin slightly, meeting her gaze, but not providing an answer._

_“Do you not hear me speaking to you, or do you not understand?” Rowena spoke with patronizing clarity, peering down her sharp nose._

_Sam reached out for the guitar. “It’s mine. I mean… “_

_Her head snapped at him like a viper. “My office.” She scowled and stomped away again._

_Manny sucked his teeth. “Damn, man. I’m sorry.”_

_“Not your fault.” Sam put away the guitar and sighed before he knocked on the door to the office._

_He stood at attention, with his hands behind his back._

_Rowena folded her arms over her chest, her eyes scanning him from head to toe. Then she reached out, and warm fingers gently brushed his cheek. “What happened to your face?”_

_Sam shook his head as a tiny spark assaulted his chest. “Nothing.”_

_“You understand, out there, I have to treat you like the others.” A smirk played at her brightly painted lips. “Where’s the guitar?”_

_“I left it…” Sam imagined for a moment that she might want to confiscate it, like an elementary school teacher. Then, he had another thought. “Did you...?”_

_She only smiled._

_“Oh, my… I can’t accept that.”_   
_`_   
_“Of course, you can.”_

_Sam barked out a laugh and lowered his face._

_Rowena crossed her arms over her chest and said, “I have some news for you.”_

_Sam’s brows raised, but he couldn’t manage another word._

_“I’ll tell you after work. Why don’t you stay for the open mic? Rufus told me how much you enjoyed that. Then, you and I can have a nice chat after.”_

_Sam nodded and started to leave. With his hand on the knob, he turned to face her. He had been expecting at least a reprimand._

_Rowena grinned. “Unless you prefer a punishment.”_

_***_

_After Sam had helped Doris load her gear back into her van, he asked Manny to show him a few things on the guitar. The place was empty; there was only the locking up left to do. He knocked on the office door._

_Rowena didn’t look up from her file, but she smiled as Sam entered. “I watched you.”_

_“Watched?” He hadn’t actually done anything._

_“You really did enjoy that, didn’t you?”_

_“Oh. Yeah, it’s - “ Sam stopped cold, eyes narrowing at the quilt spread out on the floor._

_Rowena scribbled something on her pages. “Well, why don’t you play?”_

_“Oh.” Sam shook his head. “I’m… I’m not any good.”_

_“Well…” She capped her pen and finally smiled up at him. “Who’s to judge?”_

_Sam remained where he stood. “You had some news?”_

_“Oh. Yes. I’ll tell you in just a moment.” She flickered one thin finger at the blanket. “Why don’t you come in and close the door?”_

_“Um.” Sam scratched the top of his head, eyeing the blanket. “Sure.”_

_He stood at the edge of the fabric, carefully following Rowena as she moved around the desk._

_“You are one remarkable_ lad _, Sam.”_

_He laughed, diverting his eyes. “I’m really not.”_

_“Oh, but you are. Perfect.” Sam could only imagine how her tongue must have curled to pronounce the word the way she did. “And I have long years of experience on the matter.”_

_He jerked a thumb over his shoulder, towards the door. “Um. I think I should…”_

_“Say my name, Sam.”_

_“Hm?” His eyes widened at the request._

_“You haven’t spoken my name a single time since we’ve met. I’d like to hear you say it.”_

_“Okay. Mrs. Turner.” He chuckled nervously. “I should go.” Sam inhaled through his nose, shook off the haze over his brain and turned for the door._

_”I know where your brother is.”_

_Sam froze with his back to the desk, the woman, and the blanket._

_“Have you ever kissed a girl, Sam?”_

_She inched closer. Sam could hear her quietly crossing the linoleum. He calculated the seconds before her attack. He could defend himself better than most, even against the ablest adversary. Rowena was a tiny, harmless person. He could stave her off without any effort at all - as soon as he regained mobility._

_“You haven’t, have you?” Her fingers brushed, spider-thin, down his arm._

_From the corner of his eye, he saw pale bare feet and a bangle around ivory ankles._

_“It’s very easy to do.” She reached around and took his chin between her thumb and forefinger. “Show Mommy your tongue.”_

_Sam didn’t run, he didn’t fight. He couldn’t move as her fingers bit into his cheeks._

_“You’re going to give Mommy a nice kiss, and then, Mommy is going to give you what you need.”_

_Sam wasn’t sure how he had come to be on his knees. There had been a hand, light as air on his shoulder, but no pressure at all. He had simply gone down and lifted his face to hers._

_“That's my good boy.” Rowena stepped close, stroking her hand over his hair._

_She laid back on the blanket, gestured with one hand while with the other she bunched up her skirt. When Sam obeyed and leaned down, she dropped the fabric over his head. Tiny, surprisingly strong hands held his skull in place. Sam moaned once and struggled slightly against her grip. His hands clutched at slender thighs as he breathed in the briny scent of her, and did as he was told._

_“That's it. Good boy. What a good, sweet boy.”_


	10. Chapter 10

_Silently, Sam folded himself out of Rowena’s passenger seat. He turned to speak, but never raised his eyes and couldn’t find his voice._

_“Good night, Sam.”_

_She drove away and left him ankle deep in filthy snow, on an unfamiliar street, with a bitter wind whipping his hair around his face, but standing next to the Impala. If Dean was back in his right mind, he would never have abandoned the car. But his brother was nowhere to be seen among the row of abandoned warehouses._

_The wind ripped through Sam’s thin jacket. He hunched his shoulders and pulled it tight as he slowly walked in the deep dark between the deserted buildings. The air crackled, reminding Sam of the moments before every hunt. The only weapons he possessed were his two hands and years of his father’s relentless training. The guitar hung from his shoulder. Plywood doesn’t make for much of a bludgeon. At most, it would stun an attacker, if he were mortal._

_He turned a corner to find a flame flickering in the distance. Cautious, but like a moth, he moved towards it, remaining in the shadows until he could get a clear look at the figures huddled around the barrel bonfire._

_Even from fifty yards, a surge of recognition flared through him at the shape of his brother rubbing his palms together over the spitting embers. Sam took a single step forward, checking the perimeter again._

_He was practically at Dean’s elbow - his brother’s perception immeasurably slower than usual. There was a time, he would never let anyone sneak up on him like this. Sam smelled the reason immediately the moment Dean opened his mouth._

_“Sam?” Eyes wide, Dean took a step back._

_Then, a brilliant smile blazed across his face so bright that Sam sucked in a quick rush of air to steady himself._

_“Hey. Hey, you guys. This is my little brother.” Dean clapped Sam on the shoulder._

_Of the five other people warming themselves around the trashcan, most of them seemed exhausted, disinterested, or mentally unavailable for comment. A couple of them offered an unsettling groan, a little too reminiscent of the undead for Sam's taste, in reply._

_One man in an oversized trenchcoat and a filthy looking knitted hat grumbled under his breath, “Hello, Sam.”_

_“Sam, Cas. Cas, Sam.”_

_A curious expression flashed over Dean’s face as he leaned close to Sam’s face and had a sniff. He smirked and clapped his brother’s shoulder. “You been licking snatch, you little devil?”_

_“Why did you leave?” Sam barely breathed the words._

_Dean shook his head and rubbed his hands together again. “Have a beer. Shurley, give Sam a beer.”_

_Sam just blinked at the man and finally, back at his brother. Lips trembling, he compelled himself to speak. “Why did you leave?”_

_Another man, with a thick dark beard and a coat not much thicker than their thin army jackets, dug into a cooler - their cooler, the one Sam and Dean kept in the Impala - and offered Sam a drink. He scowled at it, chest heaving. “I thought you’d be…” His voice was weak, failing to convey even half of the jaw clenching anger welling up in him. It wavered, though, like he was twelve years old and afraid and that was honest, too. “Why did you leave, Dean?”_

_‘Because you molested him, you freak.’ Sam’s mind supplied the reply that Dean swallowed along with his beer._

_Sam winced at the voice in his head, as well as his brother’s silence. “Dean.”_

_“I needed to … clear my head.”_

_Sam nodded, rolled his lips into his mouth and sniffed loudly. “I thought you were … Honestly, I figured you were in federal prison by now.”_

_“Yeah… I’ll get around to that.”_

_Sam didn’t even flinch as a curl of heat leaped up to lick his face. “Are you coming back?”_

_“Yeah, no. I can’t do that.” Dean stared into the fire._

_Somehow, Sam had expected that answer. He certainly felt it was the one he deserved. He squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed his forehead. “Why?” He shoved the question through his tight, aching throat._

_Dean made no attempt to answer._

_“So, you’re just going to stay here?”_

_“I might move around a little bit.”_

_Sam looked at the brick wall of the nearest building and ran a hand down his face. He nodded once more and started to walk away. Then, he turned on his heels and stalked back. “Where’s the money?”_

_Dean shrugged. “Here and there.”_

_Sam glowered at the cooler. “You burned through $300 in three days?”_

_Dean spread his arms, magnanimously. “We’re thirsty boys, Sam.”_

_Sam shook his head and stormed off._

_Dean called after him. “What’s that on your back? You packing, Desperado?”_

_Sam didn’t turn around or answer, mostly because he wasn’t sure he would be able to keep it together if he did._

_***_

_Sam finished scraping the last of the beans from the bottom of the can and sucked them off the spork. He tossed the can and plastic dinnerware into the sink._

_Then, he sat down on the couch and played his guitar until his eyes started to close on their own. Singing, playing, trying to remember lyrics, making up new ones if he couldn’t recall; it stopped him from thinking about anything else. That, in and of itself, was a miracle._

_***_

_Sam watched the deep lines of concentration etched across Rufus' dark forehead as the old man rolled the bandage around Sam’s arm. When he was finished and the gauze tape was applied, Sam muttered his gratitude. Rufus smiled. “You got to be more careful around that grill, kid. Much worse, we would have had to get you to the hospital. I don’t imagine you got health insurance.”_

_“No, sir.” Sam bit back the question on his mind since he came into the office._

_No one else had mentioned Rowena’s absence. Sam wasn’t going to be the one to bring it up._

_Rufus packed the supplies back into the First Aid kit. ”I think maybe I ought to send you home.”_

_“No, sir.” Sam got to his feet and got back to work. The only other thing keeping him sane was his guitar._

_Since most of his fingernails were bleeding and chipping away from playing so much, he needed something else to occupy his fevered mind._

_***_

_When he reached the front walkway of his building, Sam hopped off and kicked up the busted up skateboard he got from Manny. Apparently, everybody could tell he was a charity case. He didn’t even argue. He accepted anything they’d toss at him. Dean would say Sam had no pride. Maybe he was right._

_Sam unlocked the door to the apartment and stopped dead. There was a light on and the commotion of clanging dishes in his kitchen. A hearty, tomato-based smell filled the apartment and sent a chill through him. He breathed in, trying to calm himself. Then, he looked at the doorknob, strongly considering an escape._

_Dean’s head poked through the door frame, and Sam huffed._

_His brother smirked. “You good with pasta?” Just as quickly, he disappeared, and the kitchen noises resumed._

_Sam chuckled to himself, wiping a hand over his cheek before shrugging off his jacket and making his way to the door frame of the kitchen. Dean was stirring sauce with one hand while drinking a beer. He poured a little into the pan and grinned back at Sam._

_In Sam’s mind, he walked across the room, hugged his brother from behind, burrowed his face in Dean’s neck, breathed in the scent of his skin, basked in all that warmth. His hands smoothed down Dean’s chest. Then, his brother spun in his arms and placed his hands on Sam’s back. Sam’s arms encircled his waist. When the vision had them inching toward a kiss, Sam sniffed himself sane._

_Dean turned off the stove and removed the pan from the burner. He turned and narrowed his eyes at Sam’s scraped face and bandaged arm. “You look like shit. You been hunting without me?”_

_Sam shook his head and swallowed so he could speak. “Food service is fucking dangerous.”_

_Dean chuckled and put his bottle on the counter. He carefully took Sam’s wounded arm at the wrist, examining the gauze. “This fresh?”_

_“This afternoon,” Sam answered quietly._

_“What the hell happened?” Dean’s voice was barely a whisper._

_“I wasn’t paying attention, I guess.” Sam watched Dean’s hand brush slightly over the dressed area._

_His brother released the arm and Sam dropped it to his side. Dean lifted Sam’s chin with one finger. “And this?”_

_“Um…” Sam sighed, eyes wide. “Skateboarding.”_

_“Since when do you skateboard?” Dean chuckled softly, a tight, clipped sound that for some reason pierced straight to Sam’s cock. Dean’s hands held either side of his neck, fingers barely brushing over his jaws. Sam held his breath as Dean turned his face from left to right, observing the injuries. “Well, you obviously suck at it.”_

_Sam laughed softly. When he finally dared to look into his brother’s eyes, Dean was grinning back with an expression Sam couldn’t interpret._

_“Well, take it easy, Tony Hawk.”_

_Sam nodded. Dean let him go and returned to his drink. “Look. I got the money thing, if you want to go back to school or something.”_

_“You got it?” Sam stuck his nose into the saucepan to keep himself from watching his brother._

_“Yeah. I got it.”_

_To avoid eye contact, Sam looked at Dean’s ear, at his hair, at his mouth - which was a mistake. “So, what? Did you find a job? ‘Cause hustling-”_

_“If I say I got it, that's all you need to know.”_

_“That's not how this is going to work.” Sam met Dean’s gaze and held it firm._

_Dean raised his eyebrows. “Fine. But you need to get your GED. Then, maybe, start thinking about community college … or something.” Dean drained the bottle and shot it into the trash bin across the kitchen. He raised his arms in celebration, as if he had just won the NBA championship and looked to Sam for crowd reaction._

_Sam just shook his head. It was 100% classic Dean and a little bit more than he could bear all at once._

_His brother lifted a finger. “Another thing. What is this?” He held a plate of leftovers directly under Sam’s nose._

_“Something I cooked.”_

_Dean picked up one piece of the food between his thumb and forefinger. “And this?”_

_“I’m not sure. I think mushroom.” Sam shrugged._

_Dean shook his head. “Okay, well, it looks like burnt slug. How about you stay out of the kitchen except to eat?” He dumped the plate and the meal into the sink and pointed toward the bathroom. “Go wash your hands. Supper’s up.”_

_Sam huffed, still stunned. As he turned to leave the kitchen, Dean slapped his ass with a dish rag._


	11. Chapter 11

~ NOW ~

Cassie’s lavender fingertips fiddle with the hem of her skirt. Sam watches them and thinks about offering a comforting touch, but keeps his hands folded in his lap. His heel taps loudly until the receptionist glares at him.

“Cassie Robinson.”

Cassie’s body goes rigid. She stares at the woman as if she were holding a deadly weapon instead of a clipboard and pen.

Cassie had marched into this place with her head high. Sam followed her stalwart guidance past a small army of shouting protestors with their posters of tiny, mangled bodies. She had silently filled in the paperwork, rested in the seat beside him, and declined his offer of a US magazine.

Sam is absolutely ready to follow her right back out of that door. He’d be glad to be part of making a different plan, if that’s what Cassie wants to do. But she draws in a breath and rises to her feet.

“This your support?” The nurse points her pen at Sam.

Cassie nods.

“He can come back, for a moment, if you like.”

Cassie looks at Sam, apparently to see if he likes. He shrugs. “It’s up to you.”

He stands in the small room, facing the wall while Cassie changes into a hospital gown. There’s a poster of various birth control methods, and Sam becomes quite the expert by the time Cassie sighs. “Okay.”

She frowns down at the formless, gray robe hanging off her slight body. “Hot, right?”

“Definitely.” He tries for a laugh, but it’s paltry and only makes him sadder.

Cassie's lip trembles. Sam has a hard time swallowing the dry lump in his throat just as the nurse enters the room. He lets out a loud sigh as Cassie reaches for his hand.

The nurse rattles off medical terminology that Sam would understand if he were listening. All of his attention is on how small Cassie’s hand is, how frail her fingers seem. He trails his thumb back and forth over hers, hoping it will soothe her, even if it doesn’t make him feel any better.

“Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to wait outside.”

Sir.

Cassie squeezes his hand before she lets him go.

He sits in the waiting room, reads about how some celebrity he’s never heard of is adopting Russian twins. A woman takes the seat next to him, and he draws in his knees and elbows to make space. She sets her purse in her lap and leans in close enough to whisper. But she doesn’t whisper. She might as well be speaking into a microphone. “I just want you to know … that my daughter is back there and her piece of shit boyfriend won’t even talk to her anymore.”

Sam sits back in his seat, eyes wide on the woman’s fierce expression. He considers an apology, but doesn’t manage to speak it before she continues.

“To see you here.” Her forefinger drills into his thigh like a woodpecker. “restores my faith in men.”

People are watching them. Everyone in the clinic. Sam’s mouth opens, and all he can think to say is, “Um… Thanks?”

***

Sam thanks Cassie as she delivers the tea to his hands. She had refused to let him make it, but she did let him pay for half of the pizza. He’s eaten ¾ and she hasn’t had a bite.

Sam’s tea is still too hot. He holds the mug carefully between his hands.

Cassie slumps on her beanbag, watching him inspect the progress on her project. It consists of a spiral of those interlocking wooden train tracks he never had as a kid. They’re all painted black. Each one has a different kind of cable car attached to it. There’s a remote control affixed to one of the cable cars and a cassette tape on another. The circular pattern leads to an hourglass in the center of the table. He tries to pick it up, but it’s glued in place. Bending low, he sees that the sand has been suspended mid-spill. “This is really cool. What’s it called?”

“Regret.” Cassie’s eyes are closed.

Sam stands in one spot as if his feet were superglued to the floor, mug superglued to his palm until he thinks, maybe she is asleep.

Without opening her eyes, Cassie murmurs, “Will you sing for me?”

His fingers curl tighter around the handle of his cup. “Um. What do you want to hear?”

“I don’t care. Anything.”

Sam scratches the back of his neck and takes a deep breath. He hardly ever sings without his guitar and never for just one person. But he's here to help, and it's a small request.

Closing his eyes, he starts to sing the song he’d imagined playing at a memorial for his little niece or nephew. There won't be a ceremony. Cassie has already said she wants to put this behind her. So, this is as close as he'll get.

It’s Sarah McLachlan, and he’s sure Cassie knows the song:

Spend all your time waiting  
For that second chance  
For a break that would make it okay  
There's always some reason  
To feel not good enough  
And it's hard, at the end of the day  
I need some distraction  
Oh, beautiful release  
Memories seep from my veins  
And maybe empty  
Oh, and weightless, and maybe  
I'll find some peace tonight  
In the arms of the angel  
Fly away from here  
From this dark, cold hotel room  
And the endlessness that you fear  
You are pulled from the wreckage  
Of your silent reverie  
You're in the arms of the angel  
May you find some comfort here

***

Sam sits in the chair in Rufus' office looking down at his shaking hands, his filthy shoes, the chipped linoleum tile - while Rowena strokes him like a cat. “I tried. I tried to leave, but she … I…” He shakes his head and drops it into his hands. “She said ... she doesn’t love my brother.”

“She loves you.” Rowena’s voice is so hushed; Sam can hardly hear her over the sound of his strained breathing. “Of course, she does. Haven’t I told you, Sam? You’re perfect.”

He forces the tears back into his eyes with the heels of both hands.

“You’re worried your brother is going to find out?”

He squints at her. “I told him.”

Rowena’s eyes grow wide. “What did he do?”

“Nothing.” Sam shakes his head. “He just sat there staring at me.”

“Do you love her?”

He huffs. “No. I mean, I don’t know. Yeah, of course. Just… in a way.” He turns his pitiful gaze to Rowena’s patient, pardoning eyes.

“It was just a kiss. Nothing more. Right?”

Sam nods, and she presses his head to her bosom. “Good. That’s my good boy. Now, you must keep away from that trollop… for your brother’s sake.”

 


	12. Chapter 12

For the first time since he started at McNulty’s, Cassie’s not here. Neither is Dean. Sam hasn’t seen his brother in a few days. He’s not even sure what he’ll say when he does. Sam is still waiting for Dean to go ballistic over the thing with Cassie. So far, Dean’s reaction has been radio silence. Sam hasn’t heard from him in days.

Sam hadn’t planned to ever play this song in public, but they’re not here, and something in him needs to sing it. The part of him that urged him to write it in the first place needs to get this mess off his chest. He so fucking full, he just needs to pour himself out.

When the song is over, he lets the chill wash over his shuddering body, lets the air rattle into his aching lungs and out between his penitent lips. He hears the applause, remembers his confessors - the audience, almost as an afterthought.

***

This is the first time Sam ever quit the gig early. He just couldn’t keep singing after that. He’d told the owner that he was sick and come home.

Abandoning his guitar case by the door, he trudges toward the kitchen. There’s no light on, but he hears Dean shuffling around.

There’s just enough of a glow from the street lamps for Sam to see and freeze at the silhouette of his brother’s form leaned over the kitchen table. A bulkier body hulks over him with both of their pants bunched around their knees. Dean is panting, Gunner grunting.

As Sam's eyes adjust, the larger man grips Dean’s wrist. Without thinking, Sam crosses the space between them and shoves the musclebound creep away from his brother. Dean slides from the table and crumples to the floor as if there isn’t a bone in his body.

Sam falls to his knees beside his brother. The skin on his face is cool and clammy. He only groans when Sam says his name. “What the hell did you do to him?” he growls up at Gunner.

The ape laughs, fixing his pants. “Hey, little pussy. You want next?”

Sam's confusion becomes horror as he notices a hypodermic needle beneath one of their kitchen chairs.

“Big brother said as long as we call everything ‘the car’ you would never figure it out. I warned him not to mix business and pleasure, but that guy is a fucking mess. It’s precious.” Gunner chuckles.

Before he can think, Sam seizes the syringe. With one lunge, he drives it into Gunner’s thick neck. The man swats like it's a mosquito bite. While he claws at it, Sam snatches Dean’s carving knife from the counter and stabs him in the heart.

Gunner’s eyes shoot open. In the darkness, they appear glossy black, but that must be Sam's imagination. Gunner grasps uselessly at the hilt, stumbles backward and slumps against the wall before sliding to the floor. Sam stands over him, panting. “Fuck.”

It’s been months since Sam killed anything and it is not like riding a bicycle. Apparently, physically, it is exactly like that, because this had happened effortlessly. Mentally, though…

Sam covers his mouth with his hand, still breathing heavily. He had made easy peace with the idea that he would never harm another soul, evil or otherwise. And Sam had never killed a human before. It had always been rugarus and ghouls, dead things and undead things. Not that Gunner was a good man. Then again, that’s nothing Sam can claim to be either.

Sam sighs heavily and wipes a palm down his face. He loosens the length of rubber from around Dean’s bicep and holds his brother’s face between his hands, trying to connect with his bleary eyes. “What the fuck are you doing, you crazy asshole?”

When a few firm smacks don’t rouse him, Sam hoists and drags Dean’s limp body to the bathroom where he tosses him, fully clothed, into the cold shower.

“Fuck, Dean.” After a few minutes of Dean slouching against the tile, Sam turns off the water, strips his brother out of the wet clothes and puts him into the bed.

Drenched himself, Sam swipes his fingers through his hair and goes into the kitchen to find his phone. It occurs to him that he should wait to call the police until Dean has sobered up. Then, it occurs to him that a coroner will be able to determine a time of death and wonder why Sam waited.

Lastly, it occurs to Sam that Gunner is no longer on the floor and that the front door to the apartment is hanging open. 

***

Sam never calls anyone at 2:00 in the morning. There’s hardly anyone he calls at all, but Dean has run off gone again, and Gunner is out there, and no human could have survived that, which means Dean has been running around, impaired, with some kind of supernatural, who knows what.

Sam paces the kitchen, grimacing at the phone in his hand. He massages that space between his eyebrows. He's never called Cassie before and does not want to now. He just doesn't have a choice.

“Hey,” she answers quietly.

“Hey, um.” Sam clears the catch from his throat. “Have you seen my brother?”

“No.”

He drops his head into his hand. “Okay. Thanks.”

“Sam?”

“I can’t right now, Cassie. I, um…” He presses the red button.

***

Sam Winchester has entered some seedy buildings and been in some shady situations, but this is a whole new level of disturbing.

First of all, it’s dark. There’s just enough light for him to not trip over any of the people passed out in the hallways. He holds his breath against the thick brew of body odors: blood and shit and piss.

He holds his gun low, cocked and in both hands, ready for this to go from shitty to fucked in a heartbeat. The scruffy guy in the trench coat said Dean was in here. Gunner is probably in here somewhere, too and Sam’s just glad he had the sense to pull this pistol from the car before Dean took off again. He can only hope bullets will be effective where a blade wasn't.

In some rooms there are groans, in others, people shout out in pain or terror or both. Sam doesn’t want to believe he’ll find his brother in this Hell on earth, but he does.

It’s a relatively quiet space: a corner in a room with just a few other people crumpled over on themselves like dirty laundry. Dean is sitting upright with his eyes closed, his back against the wall. He wheezes through his open mouth. Sam holsters the gun and kneels in front of him. Wincing, he touches his brother’s face.

Dean’s eyes snap open, and he reaches out. His palm is surprisingly firm on Sam’s wrist. His nostrils flare, eyes fluttering shut again.

“Come on.” Sam wraps his arms around Dean’s shoulders and tries to help him to his feet.

For his trouble, Dean pushes him away so hard that Sam lands on his ass. Scrambling to his knees, he makes another attempt only to be shoved even more violently.

Sam blinks, his face twitching. His hands rise and then fall onto his knees. “Dean, please.”

His brother rasps, “Stay away from me, Sam. I mean it. Don’t fucking touch me.”


	13. Chapter 13

When Sam enters the kitchen Manny, Jorge and Bobby are huddled together shoulder to shoulder. Manny is the first to look up with a wide smile brightening his face. “Dude! Have you seen this?” 

Sam starts to brush past them, but his friend holds the device right in front of his nose. Even then, Sam only stops when he hears his own voice singing from the contraption. He stares blankly at the cell phone.

“Dude. You got, like, 700,000 likes since yesterday. Likes, man. That's not even views. You’re, like, fucking famous.”

Bobby punches Sam’s shoulder good-naturedly. “I put this up after your show last night. This morning, got an email from a guy from Nashville asking me if I know you. I wrote him back, I said, 'hell yeah I know ‘im. Sold him his first goddamn guitar.”

Manny and Bobby laugh and jostle each other like they’ve just won the lottery. Jorge waddles back over to the grill to flip the meat.

“Is Rowena here?” Sam grits out between his clenched teeth.

Suddenly serious, Manny adds, “Hey, man. Are you gay? 'Cause some of these lyrics sound kind of a little bit gay. I mean, I don't care. Do your thing, but --”

Sam pushes open the office door and finds Rowena at the desk, filling out paperwork. He takes two steps into the room before he collapses to his knees and lets his tears drop into his palms.

“Oh, dear.” Rowena leaps from her seat, closes the door behind Sam. Quietly, she twists the lock and kneels beside him. “Oh, darling boy. Mommy’s sweet, sweet boy.”

The shaking of Sam’s body and his sobs slowly subside as Rowena wraps her arms around him and latches onto his neck. She softly sucks his skin until he trembles for another reason. He tries to shake his head clear as his body strains toward her.

“It’s time, isn’t it?” As her hand falls away from Sam’s shoulder, he reaches out to pull her closer. “Just relax, dear lad. Mommy’s going to take care of everything. Make all that pain go away.”

Dainty hands cover his closed eyes. Sam holds his breath, awaiting something, although he's not sure what to expect. He senses, rather than sees, a bright white light, as if his face were turned up to the mid-day summer sun. It's accompanied by a twinge of warmth and a barely audible electric hum. When that moment has passed, Rowena’s body is no longer within reach. Frantic, Sam opens his eyes to discover the fingers on his face belong to Cassie. She stands over him with a beatific smile like the Virgin Mother Mary.

Rowena is splayed across the tiles with her hair fanned out like flames around her pale face. A copper dagger lays only inches from her hand. As Sam blinks, his mind clears like dark clouds receding after a storm. It's only now that he realizes how comfortably muddled and foggy he'd always been in Rowena’s presence.

He climbs to his feet and kicks away a silver bowl that sat on Rowena’s other side.

Cassie scowls down at the woman on the floor. “She was going to drain you dry.”

Sam has no doubt that what Cassie says is true. Still, he narrows his eyes. "What are you?"

 

*** 

 

Sam gapes at the cup of tea in Cassie’s outstretched hand. They've arrived in her apartment in the literal blink of an eye. He searches the space, still trying to get his bearings.  

“I know. It’s a lot all at once.” She sets the mug on the counter. “I don't know what that witch was working on, but only the darkest spells require the blood of an orphan gained in trust and tainted by lust.” 

Sam had never thought of himself as an orphan. The thought doesn’t exactly warm him.

“After your father died, you and your brother were on… well, everybody’s radar. The sorrow and shame and agony radiating from the two of you was like a magnet for some pretty low-level attention, if you know what I mean.”

Sam stares back at Cassie. He knows what she means, but his voice still fails him.   

“Supernatural creatures are a lot like animals in that we establish ownership and dominance with sex. A lot like humans, too, for that matter." She shrugs.

"Ownership?" Sam murmurs, brow furrowed.

"There was a black market auction for unfettered access to your souls. Rowena won you and that piece of shit demon, Gunner --”

“Demon?” Sam has seem some dark things in his days, but they had never come across a demon before.

Cassie nods. “He won Dean.”

Sam lowers himself slowly into one of the chairs at Cassie's table. He runs a hand over his hair before he asks, “And you?”

“One of my operatives was present at the auction.” She picks up the tea and has a small sip. "I've been watching you for a long time."

“What are you, Cassie?” Sam pretends to scratch his back as he checks for the pistol holstered at his back.

The cup clinks softly as Cassie places it on the saucer. “I was once called Calliope.”

Sam shakes his head, trying to rattle loose a bit of mythology from the endless log of information his father had drilled into his head. “Daughter of ... Zeus and … Mnemosyne?”

“Very good.” She nods her approval.

“You’re a muse.”

Cassie smiles. “I am. And I adore you. From the first time I saw you, when you were very, very young.” Her head tilts, ever so slightly, as she peers down into his thunderstruck eyes. “There was no chance for me then. I had to wait until… well, until you were ready for inspiration."

Sam takes a few deep breaths, and tries his best to process her words.

"Do you remember when we met? How I wanted you? But your heart is claimed, isn’t it?" A pained look mars her face. "So, I had to approach you from a different angle in order for us to conceive our child.”

“Our what?” Sam’s eyes bulge.

“The song. Your magnum opus. Now that it's complete, I understand that you were never meant to love me.”

She snaps her fingers and Dean appears before them, on the kitchen floor. Sam throws himself from his chair to take his brother's side. Dean slouches forward, chin pressed into the vomit dribbling from the corner of his mouth. Cassie looks at him with a mixture of disdain and tenderness. “A gifted lover - in the rare moments he was sober. Once, when he was drunk or high or both, he called for you in his ecstasy. I’m not sure he even knows.”

She sighs and touches Sam’s cheek. “I'll restore him. For you. Rowena is gone. My operative is doing away with Gunner. There are no other dark thing that believes it has claim to you. But if you continue to live in darkness and shame, others will find you and devour you, like those two nearly did."

"What are we supposed to do?" Sam shakes his head, trying to hold it together for Dean's sake, even as his brother's head lolls in his hand. "It's like you said. They already know we're out there."

"The only place for you and your brother to hide is in the light. No fear. No shame. Only pure love, Sam.” Cassie leans forward until their lips meet in a chaste kiss.

She touches Dean’s forehead, light emanating from her hand until Sam is forced to shield his eyes. When he looks again, Cassie has vanished. Dean groans and blinks. His face and clothes are clean. His eyes are clear as he squints up at Sam with a questioning expression.

"I'll explain everything. How do you feel?"

Slowly, a grin splits Dean's face as he rolls his shoulders in a catlike stretch. He scratches his face as he yawns and nods. “Pretty fucking awesome.”

 

***

 

Sam drives his shovel into the dirt.

Dean starts with ceremonial, meticulous sprinkling. Within a few minutes, he winds up dumping the whole bag of salt into the grave. “Ashes to ashes, old man. I, uh… I’m going to do my best not to fuck up too royally. Thanks for, uh…” Dean shakes his head. He clears his throat, turns his back and steps away, wiping a hand down his face.

“Rest in peace, Dad.” Sam sniffs and tosses the lighter into the grave.

The swell of flames illuminate his face.

 

*** 

 

The motel room is fogged up from the epic shower Dean is taking. Sam glances over his shoulder at the mist seeping out from under the bathroom door. It's been at least half an hour. He sighs and peels back the curtain to get a better look at the sunrise.

They haven’t plotted out their next move. They haven’t talked about all the crap that has gone down over the six months. They haven’t even said a word about the man they just salted and burn - the man who set them on this road in the first place. They’ve hardly spoken to each other at all and Sam is convinced that he’s going to lose his mind if he doesn’t say something.

Finally, Dean emerges from the bathroom in a cloud of steam. With one towel wrapped around his waist, he vigorously rubs another over his head. He looks like a work of art again, like a god. Sam can't attest to his mind, yet, but Dean's body is everything it ever was. Everything Sam ever wanted.

When his big brother speaks, it’s with that authoritative tone, like he’s ready to dictate a plan Sam will follow. “All right. There's a guy --” 

“Dean, I'm in love with you.” 

Dean freezes for a second, eyes wide. Then, he goes on drying his hair. “I need coffee.” 

 

***

 

Sam doesn’t touch his breakfast, but he chews the hell out of his lip. Dean eats like he hasn’t seen food in days. He scoops in eggs and bacon and hash brown. “You don't want that?” Crumbs spill from his full mouth and he’s already reaching across the table before Sam pushes his plate towards him.  

Sam lets Dean pay and goes into the bathroom to splash some cold water on his hot face to keep himself from bursting into tears. Cassie had said ...  but maybe Sam had misinterpreted.

One thing is sure, if dark creatures like sorrow and shame, they will be after Sam’s ass.  

He slumps into the passenger’s seat and stares out of the window. The trunk slams shut; the driver’s door opens. Something lands in Sam’s lap as Dean climbs in and starts the car.  

Sam looks down at the black and white composition notebook in his hands. He recognizes it from the things in Dean's duffel. “What is this?” 

Dean doesn’t take his eyes from the road. Peeling back the cover, Sam huffs and rubs his palm over the yellowing page. “How long have you had this? 

“Half a decade, maybe.” 

Sam flips through, picks an entry at random and reads to himself:  

_I bet it's some stupid blonde with big boobs._

_How can he not know how much I love him? How can he not see me staring at him all day. I'm up wanting him all night and then dad gets pissed off at me when I fuck up. Which is all the time, constantly. Because I will never be as good as he is or as a fast._

_All I want is for him to look at me and see me like I see him. To touch me - anywhere or say anything to me. Even call me a little bitch. I don’t care. Anything. Just to stop chasing every girl in the world and want me?_

Sam covers his mouth with his hand.  

Every page is a variation on the same theme. Sam’s lovesick, twelve-year-old brain had been wise enough not to write Dean’s name, but it was spelled out pretty damn mortifyingly clear. 

The writing stops somewhere around the ¾ mark of the notebook. The next few pages are blank. Then, there are sketches: page after page of pencil drawings of Sam. Sam sitting with his chin in his hand. Sam cleaning a gun. Sam sleeping. Sam smiling. That expression Dean calls Sam’s bitch face. 

“Did you do these?” He asks, breathless.

Dean doesn’t look away from the road. 

“I never knew you could draw.”

“There's a lot you don't know about me, Sam.” Dean signals left and watches out of his mirror for an opening in the traffic. 

Sam watches Dean’s fingers drum on the steering wheel. “Does this mean--” 

“Doesn't mean anything?” Dean hangs his elbow out of the open window. 

Sam traces over the dark outlines on a sketch of himself with a book. On the page, his hair falls into his eyes as he chews on his bottom lip like some ingenue in a romance novel. “Why didn't you say --” 

“Because dad would have killed me,” Dean snaps, scoffs and just as quickly lowers his voice. “Like he should have. Even though it’s his own fucking fault we’re like this.” 

Sam swallows thickly. “Is it so awful?” 

Dean glances over, as if checking on his brother’s sanity. “Are you seriously asking me that?”

Sam shrugs. “I mean, we’re not hurting anybody.” 

“I would have hurt you.” Dean’s voice is low and dangerous.

Sam stares, but lets him continue.   

“You were a little kid, all caught up in your little feelings and …  the things I thought about you. About doing to you … I can’t help ..." Dean wipes his lip with a trembling hand. "...wondering if there isn't some sick fucking part of me that just wanted dad out of the way, so I could --” 

“You wouldn't,” Sam says, putting a stop to the madness. “You’re not like that. You’re a good person.” 

“Yeah.” Dean scoffs. “A good person wouldn't want to fuck his little brother.” 

“Dean.” 

“What?” Dean barks and covers his mouth with his palm.

“I'm not a little kid anymore.” 

Dean looks briefly at him and chuckles. “Yeah, you are.” 

“No, I’m not. Took care of your sorry ass, didn’t I?” 

Dean huffs. “You ever been laid, Sam?”

Sam closes the notebook and smooths over the cover. “Never wanted to. Except --” 

“Stop.” 

“Why?” Sam stares, willing his brother to look back at him. “No shame. No more fucking hiding. I haven't been with anyone else, because I only want you.” 

“Yeah. That's not at all fucked up.” Dean diverts his eyes out of the driver’s window. 

Sam gazes blankly out of his own. “Maybe I am.”  

It’s out. Sam has spelled it out. There isn’t anything more he can do. He sighs, and takes another deep breath, feeling lighter and more alive than he ever has. This isn’t exactly what he wants, but it’s honesty. That is a purity of love that Sam has never been able to give his brother before now.  

In spite of the soft tug of pain still in his chest, Sam smiles as the antique shops and fruit stands pass in a blur. He starts at the brush of warm fingers on the nape of his neck. He inhales even deeper and lets his head fall forward as long, strong fingers massage and slide up through his hair. Dean’s hand cups Sam’s ear and moves smoothly down his chin. Dean’s thumb brushes over his bottom lip and every nerve in Sam’s body bursts into flames. 

“You’re ready for this?” 

Sam swallows and nods. Gently, Dean turns his face so that he can read the road sign out of the windshield:

 

Welcome to Nashville, Home of the Grand Ol Opry.

END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Such an amazing song. It's been an emotional roller coaster interpreting it through an SPN lens.  
> It got pretty dark before the other side of the tunnel came clear, but I guess that's where the song takes me.  
> Hopefully, you've enjoyed the ride. 
> 
> If you haven't heard the tune, PLEASE, do yourself the favor immediately.  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jHEj4cRhm3E
> 
> Thank You for your feedback along the way and at any time you feel inspired to share your thoughts.  
> I'm nothing but grateful ears.


	14. LYRICS

BREATHE (2:00 AM)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jHEj4cRhm3E

Two AM and she calls me 'cause I'm still awake,  
Can you help me unravel my latest mistake,  
I don't love him, winter just wasn't my season  
Yeah we walk through the doors, so accusing their eyes  
Like they have any right at all to criticize, hypocrites,  
You're all here for the very same reason

'Cause you can't jump the track, we're like cars on a cable  
And life's like an hourglass, glued to the table  
No one can find the rewind button girl,  
So cradle your head in your hands  
And breathe, just breathe,  
Whoa breathe, just breathe

May he turn twenty-one on the base at Fort Bliss  
Just today he sat down to the flask in his fist,  
Ain't been sober, since maybe October of last year.  
Here in town you can tell he's been down for a while,  
But my God it's so beautiful when the boy smiles,  
Wanna hold him, maybe I'll just sing about it.

'Cause you can't jump the track, we're like cars on a cable,  
And life's like an hourglass, glued to the table.  
No one can find the rewind button boys,  
So cradle your head in your hands,  
And breathe, just breathe,  
Whoa breathe, just breathe

There's a light at each end of this tunnel, you shout  
But you're just as far in as you'll ever be out  
These mistakes you've made, you'll just make them again  
If you only try turning around.

Two AM and I'm still awake, writing a song  
If I get it all down on paper, it's no longer  
Inside of me, threatening the life it belongs to  
And I feel like I'm naked in front of the crowd  
'Cause these words are my diary, screaming out loud  
And I know that you'll use them, however you want to

'Cause you can't jump the track, we're like cars on a cable,  
And life's like an hourglass, glued to the table  
No one can find the rewind button now  
Sing it if you understand.  
And breathe, just breathe

by Anna Nalick


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